Atf  : 


LOS 

ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

THE  APOSTLE 
CHILDE   JOHN 

SIMPLE   STEVE 

"CYPRESS  LEAVES  FROM  THE   GRAVE  OF  DEAR  ETHEL" 

SELECTED  LYRICS. 

Translated  by 

WILLIAM  N.  LOEW 

Author-Translator   of       "    " 

Gems  from  Petofi,     Magyar  Songs,     Magyar  Poetry. 

Mikszath's:  The  Good  People  of  Palocz. 

Madach's:    Tragedy    of    Man. 

The    net   proceeds   of   the    sale    of   this   volume   are 
dedicated  by  the  publishers,  The  Hungarian 

Literary    Society    of    New    York 

to   a   fund   for  the   erection   of  a   statue   of 

ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

in  the  City  of  New  York. 


PREFACE. 


Alexander  P-tofi  is  Hungary's  greatest  lyric 
poet  and  one  of  the  truly  great  singers  of 
sweet  song  of  the  civilized  world.  Grimm  the 
great  German  literary  essayist,  names  Petofi 
as  one  of  the  five  greatest  poets  of  the  world. 

Slowly,  but  surely  his  fame  grows.  If  Petofi 
had  a  translator  of  his  lyrics  into  English  as 
competent  as  Shakespeare  had  to  translate  his 
dramas  into  the  languages  of  the  European 
continent,  then  Petofi  would  be  universally 
recognized  as  the  great  poet  of  all  of  the 
world's  (poetical  literature. 

Many  are  called — few  are  Godborn  sons  of 
>ong  and  only  a  true  poet  can  translate  well. 

In  the  preface  to  a  former  volume  of  mine  I 
earnestly  protested  against  being  charged  with 
the  conceit  of  considering  myself  a  poet. 

I  confessed  then  and  I  repeat  it  here,  that  I 
do  not  claim  that  my  heart  and  soul  are  warm- 
•ed  by  the  holy  flame  lit  by  the  Muses : — no, 
only  my  undying  love  .for  my  native  country, 
my  boundless  admiration  for  Petofi  inspire 
me  to  do  some  "missionary"  work  in  introduc- 
ing him  to  Anglo-American  readers. 

For  nearly  half  a  century  I  have  been  trying 
to  make  him  and  his  poetical  genius  known 
here  in  the  United  States. 


2084672 


In  the  early  70*5  I  wrote  for  Professor  Ras- 
mus Anderson  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin 
a  story  of  the  life  of  Petofi  and  sent  him  a 
dozen  or  more  of  my  earliest  Petofi  transla- 
tions. He  was  to  use  my  contribution  as  a 
preface  to  his  translation  of  Petofi's  novel 
"The  Hangman's  Rope".  A  few  years  later  I 
translated  a  number  of  Magyar  Folk  Songs, 
among  them  some  of  Petofi's,  for  Francis 
Korbay,  the  foremost  resident-musician  of 
Magyar  birth  then  living  in  New  York,  to  be 
used  by  him  in  the  transcriptions  of  Magyar 
Folk  Songs  he  was  then  publishing.  I  did 
similar  work,  later  on,  for  our  dear  old  Edward 
Remenyi  and  for  Maximilian  Vogrich. 

Petofi's  gloriously  igreat  poem  "One  thought 
torments  me" — appeared  for  the  first  time  in 
the  "Critic",  just  launched  by  the  late  Richanl 
Watson  Gilder,  one  of  America's  great  poets. 

In  1881  I  published  my  "iGems  from  Petofi 
etc." — and  in  1883  I  lectured  before  a  body  of 
Hungarians,  at  the  city  of  Cleveland,  on 
"Alexander  Petofi".  The  committee  having 
the  lecture  in  charge  published  it  and  devoted 
the  proceeds  of  the  sale  to  a  charitable  object. 
Even  to-day,  after  twentynine  years,  there 
still  rings  in  my  ear  the  cheer  caused  by  a 
passage  in  that  lecture  of  mine  which  enthused 
my  hearers :  "Every  smile,  every  tear  of  his 
was  a  poem". 

Then  I  published  a  volume  of  "Magyar 
Songs''  and  later  a  volume  of  "Magyar  Poetry", 
two  anthologies  of  Magyar  lyrics,  both  contain- 
ing a  number  of  my  Petofi  translations. 


PREFACE  5 

Xo  one  is  more  thoroughly  aware  than  I  am 
erf  the  immense  distance  between  the  Magyar 
Petofi  and  the  English  Petofi  as  the  latter  is 
made  known  to  the  reader  by  my  translations. 
However,  I  claim  one  merit.  My  translations 
may  not  be  classic  reproductions,  .may  not  be 
poetic  creations  showing  Petofi's  true  genius, 
however,  I  think,  that  I  succeeded  in  produc- 
ing— con  a'more — faithful  photographs. 

English  students  of  Magyar  literature  will 
in  the  course  of  time  do  better  and  at  some 
future  day  all  of  the  world  shall  recognize  the 
truth  of  John  H.  Ingram's  opinion :  "Petofi  is 
the  world's  greatest  lyric  poet,  he  w!ho,  to  my 
mind  is  more  the  representative  spirit  and  soul 
of  Hungary  than  any  man  has  yet  been  of  that 
country." 

Until,  however,  Petofi  has  the  good  fortune 
to  find  a  Bayard  Taylor  or  a  H.  W.  Long- 
fellow to  make  him  feel  at  home  in  Anglo- 
American  literature,  the  undersigned  thought 
best  to  do  something  to  counterefifect  the  pos- 
sible opinion  of  the  English  literary  world  of 
Petofi's  worth  and  value  as  a  poet,  if  based 
solely  on  the  alleged  translations  of  Sir  John 
Bowring . 

Fortunately  there  are  other  Petofi  trans- 
lators. E.  D.  Butler,  Henry  Phillipips  jr.  (an 
American)  and  Frederick  Walter  Fuller  have 
done  magniificient  work,  but  all  the  three  put 
together  have  given  only — I  think — a  score  or 
so  of  Petofi's  sonsfs  to  England  and  America, 


6  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Petofi's  recognition  by  England  and  Ame- 
rica as  the  world's  great  lyric  poet  is  still  to 
come. 

He  had  German,  French  and  Italian  trans- 
lators who  endeared  'him  to  their  respective 
countries  and  enriched  their  own  literatures 
by  giving  them  a  Petofi  of  their  own. 

If  .my  ipresent  work  adds  but  a  single  leaflet 
to  the  wreath  of  immortality  of  his  high  fame 
"which  nothing  can  cover  but  heaven",  then 

indeed  I  am  a  proud  and  happy  man. 
•* 

"The  Apostle"  is  a  dream  of  Petofi's,  "a 
series  of  boldly  drawn  'pictures, "  an  epic  poem 
of  democratic  convictions.  Petoifi's  conception 
•of  the  world  might  be  summed  up  thus :  "'Man- 
kind is  continually  developing.  A  grape  is  a 
small  thing,  yet  it  requires  a  whole  summer 
to  ripen  it.  How  many  thousands  of  somrays 
have  touched  a  single  berry.  How  many  mil- 
lions may  the  world  need!  The  rays  wihich 
ripen  the  world  are  the  souls  of  men.  Every 
great  soul  is  such  a  ray  — 

"Childe  John"  is  t'he  most  truly  Magyar 
fabulous  fairy  story  ever  told. 

"Simple  Steve"  is —  — 'Petofi.  the  light- 
hearted,  easy  going,  goodnatured,  loveable  and 
loving  youth,  full  of  animal  spirit,  with  a 
heart  of  gold.  — 

These  three  epics  are  not  "the  great  epics" 
of  Magyar  literature,  but  they  are  perfect 
gems  of  Petofian  view  of  life,  humor,  pathos. 

The  "Cyipress  'Leaves     from     dear     Ethel's 


PREFACE  7 

Grave"  are  heartrending  outbursts  of  a  grief 
at  the  loss  of  one  sweetheart,  soon  exchanged 
for  another,  w'ho  then  inspired  him  to  sing 
other  rhapsodies  of  Love . . . 

The  hundred  odd  "selected  lyrics"  added  to 
to  these  aforenamed  translations,  make  a  fairly 

representative  volume  of  an  English  Petpfi. 
•* 

In  December  1910  I  lectured  before  a 
Magyar  Society,  "The  First  Hungarian  Liter- 
ary Society  of  New  York  City",  an  ambitious 
body  of  young  Magyar-Americans.  I  spoke 
in  memory  of  Coloman  Mikszath,  Hungary's 
great  humorous  writer,  the  Mank  Twain  of 
my  native  land. 

In  the  course  of  my  remarks  I  said :  "Mik- 
szath was  to  Francis  Deak's  Hungary  what 
Petofi  had  been  to  the  Hungary  of  Kossuth" ; 
and  speaking  then  of  Petofi,  I  suggested  the 
propriety  of  a  movement  to  be  undertaken  by 
them, — the  members  of  the  Hungarian  Society 
I  was  then  addressing — to  erect  here,  in  New 
York  City,  a  statue  in  honor  o,f  Alexander 
PetMi,  the  great  bard  of  love  and  liberty. 

The  suggestion  was  enthusiastically  acted 
upon.  A  committee  was  appointed  entrusted 
with  the  carrying  out  the  idea.  This  volume 
is  my  contribution  to  that  monument.  The 
"Hungarian  Literary  Society  of  New  York" 
accepted  my  contribution  and  undertook  the 
•publication  of  the  volume,  the  net  proceeds  of 
the  sale  thereof  going  to  the  "Monument- 
Fund". 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

As  an  interesting  historical  fact  I  must  be 
allowed  to  mention  here,  that  Alexander  Pe- 
tofi's original  "Cypress  Leaves  From  the 
Grave  of  Dear  Ethel"  was  first  published  by 
a  patriotic  society,  the  "Nemzeti  Casino",  in- 
duced to  do  so  at  the  suggestion  of  Michael. 
Vorosmarty,  whose  opinion  as  to  Petofi's 
(poetical  genius  was  more  readily  accepted  by 
the  magnates  of  the  Magyar  Casino,  than  by 
the  Magyar  publishers  of  Pest,  who  were  not 
willing  to  print  the  poems  of  a  then  unknown 
author. 

The  net  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  the  second 
edition  of  the  "Cypress  Leaves"  Petofi  dedic- 
ated to  a  charitable  object. 
* 

Let  me  hope,  that  by  ,the  time  the  literary 
world  celebrates  the  centenary  of  PetSfi's 
birthday,  the  Magyar  Societies  of  New  York 
and  if  the  United  States,  assisted  by  the  lovers 
of  song  of  all  other  races,  will  gather  around 
that  statue,  then  already  erected,  to  place 
wreaths  of  laurel  upon  the  pedestal  of  his 
monument,  and  that  in  the  hearts  of  the 
thousands  then  and  there  assembled  will  re- 
echo Petofi's  famous  song: 

"Freedom  and  love 

Are  dear  to  me; 

My  life   I   g;ive 

Sweet  love   for   thee 

Yet  love   I    give 

For   liberty!" 
New  Yorlk,  March  i5th,  1912. 

WM.  N.  LOEW. 


THE  APOSTLE 


THE  APOSTLE. 


i. 

The  town  is   dark.     The  night  o'er  it  is   spread, 

In  other  climes  to   shine  the  moon  has  fled, 

And   every  star   on   high 

Has   closed   his    golden   eye; 

Black  as  the  borrowed  conscience  is  from  wear 

So   black  the   aspect   that   the   world   does   bear. 

One   tiny   little   light 

Is  glimmering  on  yon  height; 

And   like   a  sick  man's   glaring  eyes, 

Or   like   a    dying   hope    that   flies, 

That   flickering  light  to   flare   up   tries. 

The  midnight  oil  it  is,  in  garret-room. 

Who   is   it   watches  at   that  lamp's   pale  gloom? 

Who  can  it  be?     You  wish  to  know? 

Two    famous    brothers    they,    —   Virtue    and    Woe. 

So  great  the  misery,  it  has  hardly  space 

To  stir  in  that  lone,   God-forsaken  place. 

Just  like  a  swallow's  nest,  it  is  so  small, 

The  very   squalor  of  it   doth   apall. 

The   four  walls   are   all   gruesome   and   all  bare, 

That  is  to  say,  had  not  the  moldy  air 

Adorned   them   all   o'er  with   spot   and   stain. 

And  had  from  leaky  roof  the  pouring  rain 

Not  painted  them  with  streaks,  that  would  be  true, 

The   rain   here    drew 

Of  darkest  hue 

A   thick  line,   which 

Looks   like    in    rich 


10  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Men's  'homes  the  bell-rope   near  the  door. 

The    air    is    foui,    the    walls    outpour 

A  tainted,  putrid  breath. 

It   might   cause    e'en    the   death 

Of  rich  men's  pets,  the   dogs,  if  they 

In  kennels  like   this  had  to   stay. 

A  table  and  a  bed-stead  of  cheap  stuff,  — . 
Which  for  a  rag-fair  wouldn't  be  good  enough,  — 
Upon   the  bed,   a   bag   filled   up   with    straw, 
Two   broken   chairs  you   near  the   table   saw, 
Then  a  moth-eaten  trunk; — and  that  was  all 
You    that    room's    complete    furnishing    could    call. 

Who   lives   in   here?     The   lamp's   faint  light 
Copes    with    the    darkness    of    the    night. 
Obscured,    dim    is   the   window-pane, 
As  are   dream-pictures,  one   in   vain 
In  memory  tries   to  retain. 

Deceives  the  lamp's  faint  light  the   eye? 
Are  those  whom  here  we   can   espy 
Made  by  the  light   so  ghastly,  van, 
Or  are  they  ghosts  we  look  upon? 
The  answer  is  a  moan  and  sigh. 

Upon    the    trunk    we    first    behold 
A    mother,    whose   thin    arms    enfold 
Her    babe.      Poor,    miserable    child! 
The    mother's   barren    breasts    beguiled 
Its    craving   hunger   and   it   cries 
And   weakly  whines,  in  vain   it  tries 
Sweet  milk  to   suck  from  hollow  breast. 
The    mother's   very   looks   attest 
Her    painful    thoughts.      As    melting    snow 
Drops   from  the  roof  to  street   below: 
As  freely  flows   her  burning  tear 
Upon  her  crying  baby  dear. 
Or   can  it  be   that   she  is  not   • 
Thinking  at  all?     Her  tears  flow,  but 
As  if  it  were  a  thiirg  of  course, 


THE  APOSTLE  11 

As   is    the    spring's    flow   from    its    source? 

Her  older  child,  thank  God  's  asleep, 

—  Or   seems  to  be;  well,  it  does  not  weep, — 

Upon  the   bed,   close   to   the   wall, 

Spread  over  him  's  a  ragged  shawl. 

The    straw    peeps    out    from    'neath    the    spread. 

Sleep,    little    bOy!      Of    golden    thread 

May    angels    weave    a    dream    most    sweet: 

Dream    that    a    slice    of    bread    you    eat! 

A    man,    still   young,   the   father   he, 
Sits   at   the   table   in    deep   gloom. 
The    cloud,    we    on   his    forehead    see. 
Is   it   that  which   gives   to   the   room 
This   aspect    of   a  living   tomb? 
That   forehead   seems   an   open   page. 
Telling  of  wars   he   had  to  wage 
With   all   the   ills   of   cruel   fate. 
That  forehead   plainly   shows  the   weight 
Of  care  and  woe  which  were  his   share. 
Beneath   that   dark  forehead,   a  pair 
Of    lustrous    eyes    brilliantly    shine, 
Like    beauteous    stars    which    illumine 
The    heavenly    dome.     Bold,    fearless    eyes, 
Which  strength  and  force  do  signalise. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  thought 
Some   mighty    distance    sought, 
Had  risen  high, 
Up  to  the   sky 
Where    eagles    fly. 


II. 

Through   all   the   world   the   deepest    silence    reigns, 
Within   the   room   death's   deepest    calm   obtains. 
Without,   the.  autumn   wind   the   air   has    stirred, 
Within,    the    mother's    woeful    sigh    is    heard. 

The  little  boy,  arising  in  the  bed. 

Leans  to  the  wall  his  weary,  aching  head; 


12  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

With  tearful  voice,  as  came  it  from  the   grave, 

Begins  now  for  something  to  eat  to  crave. 

"I  am  so  'hungry,  father  dear,  oh,  please, 

Give  me  some  bread  my  hunger  to  appease. 

I   tried  to  sleep;   believe  me,   I   have  tried 

With  sleep  my  hungry  state  from  you  to  hide. 

Oh!   give  me  please,   or  show  me  but  a  piece, 

E'en    the    sight   of   bread    might    my   hunger    ease." 

"Wait   till   to-morrow   morn,   my   darling   boy, 

Thou  s'hallt  a  piece  of  white  bread  then  enjoy, 

White  bread,  baked  with  the  sweet  milk  of  the  cow." 

"I    rather   have   a   crust   of   black   bread   now, 

Than,  father  dear,  to-morrow  any  kind. 

That  I  am  dead,  to-morrow,  you  might  find. 

I'm  dying  now;  to-morrow  's  far  away, 

You  've  said  "to-morrow"  now  many  a  day, 

'Tis  always  but  to-day,  and  hungry  I. 

Oh,   tell  me  father  dear,  when  once  we   die, 

Still  hungry,  we  when  in  the  grave  we  lie?" 

"No,   darling  child,  oh  no! 

The    dead   no  'hunger   know." 

"Then,    father    dear,    it   is    best    dead    to    be, 

Then  father,  find  a  white  coffin  for  me. 

Let*  it  be  white  as  is  my  mother's  face, 

And    carry   me    to   that   good    resting   place 

Where    the   happy    dead, 

Hunger  not  for  bread." 

Who  says  that   children   are  but  innocent? 

WJiere   is   the   dagger,   where  the   sword,   that   sent 

To  human  heart  a  wound  so   sore, — 

And   pierced  it  to  its  very  core, — 

As   did  to   the  poor  father's  heart 

The    son's    complaint?     No    stabbing    dart 

Could   make   it  bleed   so  free,   as   did 

That  speech.     Oh!  how  he  tried  to  bid 

His  iheart  to  keep  still,  but  in  vain! 

He   can't   his   ardent  tears   retain. 

So   burning   they,    that   with   a    start 

He  puts  his  hand  up  to  'his  face. 

To   see,  is   it  blood   of  his   heart 


THE  APOSTLE  13 

That  spurted  there.     Not  in  the  days 

Of   bitter   woe    did   he   complain. 

But   now,   resentment  which   had  lain 

Dormant  for  years,  breaks  forth:  Oh,  God! 

Why  dids't  thou  mould  'me  from  the  clod, 

Why  not  have  left  me  in  a  state 

Of   nothingness?     Why    dids't    create 

This  body  and  this  soul,  which  long 

To  be  but  dust  again?     How  wrong 

That   I,   according  to   Thy  plan, 

Have  offspring,  but  being  a  man 

Cannot,   as   can  the    Pelican, 

My    children    with    my    heart's-blood   feed? 

I   dare  not  in  this  strain  proceed, 

I  bow,  my  God,  it  is  Thy  deed! 

We  men  are  blind,  Thy  plans  divine 

Man  cannot  grasp,  and  Thy  design 

We  must  not  judge.     Into   this   sea 

Of  life  to  put  me  hath  pleased  Thee, 

And,  as  a  magnet,  to  control 

My   life,    thou   gavest   me    a   soul. 

I    bow   and   I    obey! — Here,   boy, 

Here   is   a  slice  of  bread. — 'Enjoy 

It  now;  it  is  the  last;  God  knows 

What   wilt  thou      then   to-morrow   eat." 

And   eagerly  the  boy  arose 

And  ate  that   slice   of  bread  so  sweet. 

What   did  he  care  that  it  was  dry? 

As  shines  at  night  the  flitting  firefly 

So   shone  with  bliss  the  boy's   bright  eye. 

When  with  his  feast  the  boy  was  through 

He  promptly  went  to   sleep  anew; 

Sleep   came  with   ease,   as   comes  the  mist 

Over   the    vale   the    dawn   hath    kissed. 

And   lying   down   in  his   wont  place, 

He  sleeps  and  dreams,  a  smile  his  face 

Lights  up.     What  dream  might  he  have  had? 

Of  death?  or  did  he  dream  of  bread? 

The  mother  had   gone  on  to  weep, 

Until  she  also  fell  asleep 

She  laid   down   first   the  baby  too, 


14  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Her  arm  around  her  children  threw,... 
And  sleeps  and  dreams  her  woes  -subdue. 

The -husband  from  his  seat  arose, 

On  tiptoes   to  the  bed  he  goes, 

With  folded   arms   he   casts   his   eye 

O'er  those  he  loves.     Then  with  a  sigh 

He  says: — as  were  he  thinking  loud, — 

"At  last,  my  dears,  nature  allowed 

Sweet,    soothing    sleep    to    come    to   you. 

Ah!    dream-life  has  a   rosy  hue. 

Asleep   you   are    freed   of   the   weight     ' 

You  had.  to  bear  by  curse  of  fate. 

Good   God!     That  sleep  should  love  them  more 

Than   I !      Sleep   had   for   them   in   store 

Sweet  'happiness,   which   I    could   not 

Secure   to   them  as   their  life's   lot. 

But  let  it  pass, — they're   happy   now, 

Peace,  blissful  peace  is  on  each  brow, 

It    is    a    beauteous    sight, 

Beloved    ones,    good    night!" 

And  then   he  kissed  the  foreheads  of  the  three, 

They  are  his  'home-life's  holy  Trinity. 

His   hands  he  raiseth   his  dear  ones  to  bless 

(Ah!   that  his  hands   naught  'else  to  give  possess!) 

He   then   returns  to   his   abandoned   seat. 

Once   more   he   casts   his   eye   over  his   sweet 

Group   on   the   bed, — such   tender,   loving   gaze 

That,    though    asleep,    it    yet    to    them    conveys 

Dreams  where  an  angel  with  fair  roses  plays. 

And  then  he  looked  into  the  gloomy  night. 
His  look  is  bold;   it   seemed   as  with   the  bright 
Look  he  had  tried  the  nig'ht  to  fill  with  light. 


III. 

Where  might  have  roamed  the  man's  wakeful  soul' 
What  path  to  find  had  been  the  thinker's  goal? 


THE  APOSTLE  15 

His  mind  is  soaring  in  the  high, 
Where  in  delusive  dreams  to  fly 
The  demigods  and  lunatics  try. 

Just  like  a  bird  breaks  from  her  shell, 

On  wings  arises   high   in   air: 
So  did  he  cast  off  and   dispel 

His   woeful   sorrow  and   his   care. 
The   mortal   man   in    him   was   dead, 
The  citizen  in  him   instead 

Had  come  to  life. 

Whose  heart  for  wife 

And    children    sweet 

With   love   replete 
Had    been    a    few    moments    ago, 
Hath    now   a  heart    with   love   aglow 
For    all    humanity;    who    held 
The    three   dear   ones    that   with    him    dwelled 

In   his   loving  embrace, 

Loves    now    the    human    race. 
.His   soul's   wings   soared   far   up   on   high, 
Whence   like    a    dot    upon    an    "i" 
Earth   seemed   to   be.     W'hen   in   the   vast 
Immensity   his    soul   flew   past, 
The   stars  '  light  flickered   as  when  breath 
A   candle's   light   encountereth. 

It  flew  and  flew; 
A  million   miles   and   more   afar 
Is    in    the    sky    star    from    the    star, 

Yet  through  the  blue 
Vast  space  it  flew,  and  as  the  horse 
Which   through    a   forest   takes   its   course 
Leaveth   behind  the  countless  trees, 
So   did  his  soul  pass  by  with   ease 
And  leave  behind  the  countless  stars. 

It   meets    naught   which   its   bold   flight   bars. 
And   when  a   myriad   stars   it   passed 
And  left  behind"    and  W'hen  at  last 


16  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

It  reached, — was  it  the  world's  end? 

No!     When  it  was  given  to  him  to  stand 

In  the  centre  of  the  universe 

At  last  to  hold  with  Him  converse 

Whose  glance  to  worlds  brings  death  or  life, 

W'hose    power's    proclaimed    by    tempests'    strife, 

By  myriad  orbs  which   round   Him  course, 

W.hose   wondrous   wisdom   and   whose   force 

The    wisest    mind   can    never    trace: 

The  soul,  surcharged;  lit  up  by  Grace 

Divine,  laved  in  His  glorious  light, — < 

Just  as  is  the  white   swan's   delight 

To  dip  into  the  waters  of  the  lake, — 

"Hail  Thee!  Almighty  God!"  it  spake, 

"A  grain  of  sand,  Lord,  made  by  thee, 

I   come  full  of  humility 

To  kneel  here  in  Thy  saintly  shrine. 

Oh  pray,   believe  that   I   am   Thine, 

And  Thine  alone!     I  don't  complain. 

The   dread   fate   that   Thou   didst   ordain 

For  me  is  hard,  I  bless  Thee  e'en,  I  know 

By  it  to  be  Thy  chosen  one. 

O,   God!     The   human  race  upon 

The  earth  has  turned  its   face  from  Thee, 

Degenerates,  and  slaves  to  be 

Prefers  to  manhood  proud  and  free. 

The  parent  of  all  sin  and  vice 
Is   serfdom.     Men   will   idolise 
Men,  and  by  bending  neck  and  knee 
Before  a  man,   defy  but  Thee. 
This   cannot   ever   continue   thus, 
Thou  shall  yet  reign   Most   Glorious! 
One  life,  Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me, — 
I  ask  not  what  reward  shall  be, — 
If  any, — mine,  the  meanest  man 
Will  for  his  pay  do  all  he  can; 
I  want  no  pay,  I  hope  for  none, 
I    faithfully   my  work  have    done 
Till   now   and    shall   hereafter   do, 
Ah  well!     I   shall  receive  mv  due! 


THE  APOSTLE  17 

A  rich  reward,  for  can  there  be 
Reward   more    rich    than   feel    that    free 
My  fellow  men  became  through  me! 
For  I  still  love  my  fellow  man, 
Though  sin  still  holds  him  in  its  ban. 
O  Lord,  O  God!     Pray  give  me  strength 
That   I    accomplish   my   intent. 
Man  must  be  free!     That  is  my  plan." 

Thus  spoke  the  soul,  and  from  the  dome 

Of  heaven  high   it  flew  back  home, 

Into  that  dismal,  dreary  room, 

Back   to   the    soulless   man,   to   whom 

It    brought   back   consciousness. — He   stirred. 

Was  it  a  dream?     What  had  occured? 

He    felt   all   chilled,   yet   from   his   brow 

The  burning  sweat-drops  roll,  and  how 

A — weary,  sleepy  is  he  now! — 

He   must   have   been  awake   before. — 

And  to  the  mattress  on  the  floor 

He  drags  himself  and  goes  to  sleep. 

And  there  he  lies  upon   that  heap 

Of  straw,  who  but  a  wihile  ago 

In   heaven    had   been. — On    cushions   fine 

Humanity's  hangmen   recline; 

The  world's  benefactor  he 

Upon  the  floor  asleep  we  see. 

And    lo!     The    flick'ring    lamp    once    more 

Flares   up  and  then  its   sick  and   sore 

Life  dies.     And  just  as   secrets  told 

By  lip  to  lip  will  quick  unfold: 

Thus  cleared  the  night.     The  early  dawn- — 

The   merry   garden  maid, — had    drawn 

Bright  roses  with   the  hue   of  bloom 

On  wall  and  window  of  that  room. 

The    first    rays    of    the    rising   sun 

Fell  on  the  sleepers  forehead,  spun 

A    wreath    of   gold    around  'his   brow, 

And  then  it  seemed  Great  God,  that  Thou 

Hadst   with   t^iese   rays  just  kissed  Thy   son. 


18  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

IV. 

Who   art  them   apparition   marvelous? 

The  raiment  of  thy  soul  's  a  regal  cloak, 

Thy  body  though   is  clad   i-n   threadbare   rags. 

Thou   and  thy   dear   ones   miss   their   daily  food 

And   if   perchance    a   piece   of   soft,    black   bread 

To  bring  home  to  thy  table  bare  of  cloth 

Thou   didst   succeed,    it   marked   a   holiday. 

Those  whom   thou  lovest  best  thou  canst   support, 

But  eager   art   for  all   the   world   to  toil. 

To  enter  heaven  on  high  is  given  to  thee, 

But  barred  before   thee  is   the   rich   man's  door. 

Who  with  the  Lord  on  High  hast  had  converse 

Rebuffed  wert,  spokest  thou  to  some  great  man 

Who  with  contempt  looks  on  thy  shabby  form. 

Some  people  say,  that  an  Apostle   he, 

So<me  say  he  is  a  miserable  wretch. 

Who  art  t'hou?  Knowest  them  who  gave  thee  birth? 

Are  they,  thy  parents,  proud  to  hear  thy  name 

Or  caus>eth  it  their  face  to  burn  with  shame? 

Tell  us,  where  wert  thou  born?     On  velvet  couch, 

Or  in  a  manger,  on  a  heap  of  straw? 

Shall  I   the  story  of  his  life  now  tell? 

I  will;  but  if  I  were  to  paint  the  same 

I    would   describe    it    as   a   brook,    which    sprang 

From  unknown  rock  where  croaking  ravens  dwell. 

At  every   inch   it  flows   o'er  rock  and   stone, 

Its  murmur  is  the  groan  of  constant  pain. 


V. 

The  town-clock's  tongue  proclaimed  the  midnight 

hour. 

It  was  a  dreary  cruel  winter  night. 
The  two  mea/n   despots  of  such   nigihts  prevailed,— 
One   is  the   darkness  and  the  cold  its  twin, — 
The  world  was  all  indoors,  for  no  one  dared 
To  tempt  God  and  be  out  at  such  a  -time! 


THE  APOSTLE  19 

The  streets,  on  which  a  short  hour  ago 
A  mass  of  people  thronged,  are  empty  now, 
As  is  the  river's  bed  which  has  run  dry.    « 
In   the   abandoned   streets,   one   lunatic, 
— The    gale, — roameth    about.     It    rides    as    fast 
As  if  the  devil  had  sat  astride  on  him 
And    urged  'him   on   and   on   with    spurs   of   fire. 
All  angrily  he  leaps  from  roof  to  roof, 
Blows    into    every    chimney    he    might    meet;. 
He  then  resumes  his  flight  and  with  full  throat 
He   yells   loud   into   the   blind   night's   deaf   ears. 
He  grasps  fhe  clouds  which  on  his  way  he  found. 
With  sharpened  nail  he  tears  them  into  shreds. 
The  stars  above  affrighted  seem  to  be, 
Betwixt  the  shreds  of  clouds  tremblingly  shine. 
The   pale   moon  glides  upon  the  heaven's   dome 

As   floats   a  lifeless  corpse   upon  a  lake 

The   gale,   to   catch    its   breath,   a   moment   stopped, 
Into   a  mighty  mass  then  blew  the  clouds, 
And   from  the  height,  just  like  a  bird  o<f  prey, 
It  swooped  down  to  the  earth:  uprooted  trees, 
Broke    window   panes   and   carried   fences   off. 
When   it   had   roused   the   people   with  its   noise, 
Who,  frightened,  looked  w<hat  happened,  it  was  gone 
And  they  but   hear  its   ghastly  laughter's  voice. 
Depopulated  are  the  storm-swept  streets; 
Who  would  be  out  at  such  a  time! — But  no! 

There  goes  a  human  form.     Is  it  a  ghost? 

i 

Yes,    it    approaches    like    a    ghost.     When    near 

And  nearer  still  it  came  a  female  form 

One  recognizes,  but  to  know  her  state 

The   secret   of   fhe   darkness   it   remained. 

Is  she  a  lady  or  a  mendicant? 

Approaching,    cautiously  she   looks  around. 

There  at  the  curb  she  notes  a  cab  to  stop, 

Sees  on  the  seat  the  driver  sound  asleep. 

With    noiseless    step    she    draweth    near.     To    steal? 

Oh,  no!     Just  the  reverse.     She  opens  the  door, 

Put  in  the  cab  what  she  bore  in  her  arms. 

Then    carefully    again    she    shuts    the    door 


20  ALEXANDER  PETCFI 

And   quickly,  as   thoughts  fly,  she  disappears. 
The  house-door  where  the  cab  stood  opens  soon, 
A  lady  and  a  gentleman  come  forth, 
Get  in,  the  driver  promptly  w'hips  it  up, 
Is    off  with   rapid   gait   and   never  (hears 
The  lady's  piercing  scream,  who  at  her  feet 
Has  found  a  bundle  which  contained  a  babe. 

The  cab  its   destination  reached  and  stopped, 
The  lady  and  the  gentleman  descend, 
The  lady  to  the  driver  says:  "Here  man, 
"Here  is  your  fare,  the  tip  is  in  the  cab: 
•  "A  bouncing  newborn  babe;  take  care  of  him 
"A  gift  from  heaven  to  you  he  seems  to  be." 
Said  it  and  with  the  man   entered  the  house. 

Poor,    God-forsaken    foundling    in    that    cab! 
[Why  wert   not  born  a   dog?     Her    Ladyship 
'Would  on  her  lap  have  gladly  played  with  you) 
And  petted,  played  with  you  with  loving  care. 
i Unfortunately    though    you    are    no    dog, 
,A  'human   being   art.     God    only   knows 
Is  bright,  is  dark  the  fate  for  you  in  store? 
The    driver   only   scratched   his   head   and    ear, 
Then  murmured  something,  but  it  is  not  known 
Did  he  a  prayer  say,  or  did  he  curse. 
The  gift  of  God  was  not  welcome  to  him. 
He  ponders  deeply  what  'he  is  to  do? 
Should  he  the  bastard  to  the  stables  take? 
Dared  'he  to  do  this,  he  felt  pretty  sure 
The  irate  boss  would  throw  it  at  his  head, 
Kick  both  into  the  street,  he'l  lose  his  job. 
What  's  to  be  done?    His  whip  comes  fiercely  down 
And  off  he  drives  at  a  most  rapid   rate. 
Wlhile    driving   through   the   outskirts    of   the   town, 
A  hostelry  he   saw.     There's   life  within, 
The  window's  red  light  's  like  a  drunkard's  nose, 
r  The   driver   could  not  wish   for  better  chance, 
Upon   its   threshold   puts   the   gift   of   God, 
lAnd  then  resumes  his   drive  towards  his  home. 


THE  APOSTLE  21 

Just  then,  one  of  the  drunken  crowd  within, 
Himself  quite  full,  good-night  said  to  his  friends. 
While   stepping  o'er   the   threshold   of  the  inn 
He   stumbleth   and   he   hurries   deep   his   nose 
Into    the    frozen    snow.     In    Billingsgate 
His  injured  dignity  finds  prompt  relief. 
Then  says:     "That  threshold  grew  since  yesterday. 
Had  it  been  yesterday  as  high  as  now 
I   would   have   had  to   fall  then  too.     I   didn't. 
Still  I    did  wot  drink  one  more   drop  to-day. 
I  have  my  principles,  I  am  exact, 
And  every  day  I   drink  the  same  amount." 
Such    was    his    monologue    as    he   arose. 
He  starts  to  go,  but  murmurs  to  hinnself 
'Tis  all  in  vain,  I  don't  care  what  you  say 
That   threshold   must   have   grown   since   yesterday. 
I   won't  give  in,  I  know  whereof  I  speak, 
Did   I    drink   more   to-day   than   yesterday? 
And    yet    I    fell    to-day.     Shame   and   disgrace. 
I    say    that    threshold    grows.     But    no!      Hold   on! 
Might  not  a  stone  have   been  put  in   my  way? 
Tha.t  might  well  be  the  case.     The  world  is  mean, 
Some    men    are    very    bad,    yes,    very   bad, 
And  glad  to  see  a  fellow-being  fall; 
Put  stones  into  my  way,  my  feet  are  blind 
And  my  poor   nose   must  pay  the  penalty. 
My  consolation  is  when  they  come  out 
Who   still   carouse  in   there,   they  too  must  fall. 
I   have  a  mind     to  hide  myself  somewhere 
To   see   them   stumbling,   falling!     Ha,   ha,   ha! 
What's  that?  Hold  on  old  man!  Ain't  you  ashamed 
To  feel   elated  o'er  your  fellows  ills? 
To   show  repentance   I    shall   now  go  back 
And   I'll   remove   that   stone.     I   am  a  thief, 
A  robber,   and   I   more  than   once   have  hit 
Men  o'er  the  head  so  that  they  never  rose. 
My  conscience  how'er  does  .not  allow 
To   see  men   break  their  noses  as   did   I. 
}The   good,    old    drunken   man   then   totters   back 
(The  stone  to  pick  up,  he  does  pick  it  up, 
;But  ah!     He  looks  at  it.     What's  that?     It  screams. 


22  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  hoary  man  indeed   dumbfounded  is, 

And  all   amazed   he   thus   speaks   to   himself: 

"By  thund'rous  lightning  from  above!  "What's  this? 

No  stone  like  this  was  ever  in  my  hands. 

"Tis  soft  and  then  it  has  a  human  voice 

Let's  by  the  window  look  at  it.     Ho  ho! 

It  is  a  child,  a  real  and  living  child. 

Good   evening  brother  dear,   or   sister   sweet, 

I  know  not  which  you  are,  a  boy?  a  girl? 

How  iii  the  devil's  name  did  you  come  here? 

You   ran   away  from   home?     You  rascal  you! 

What  nonsense  is  this  stupid  talk  of  mine. 

The  little  one  is  still  in  swaddling  clothes. 

Did   I   the  parents  know   I'd   take  it  back. 

What    mean,   contemptible,    what  brutal   thing 

To  cast  one's  offspring,  off  as  one  discards 

A  worn-out  boot.     No  hog  does  ever  this, 

Not  e'en  the  outlaw  for  the  gallows  fit. 

The  wraps  are  threadbare,  'tis  poor  people's  child. 

Suppose,  that  just  to  hide  its  rich  descent 

It  had  been  with   intent  put  into  rags? 

Forevermore,    this   must   secret   remain. 

Poor    child!    who   will   your   father   be?     I    will! 

Why   not?     Yes,    Henceforth    I    your  father  am. 

I'll   bring   you   up   all    right!     I'll    steal   for   you, 

And  when  through  age  my  hand  can  no  more  steal 

— It  is  but  fair, — you   shall  then   steal  for  me. 

Henceforth  my  thefts   shall  be  more  justified, 

I'll  have  to  steal  for  two,   for  my  little  son, 

My  conscience,  too,   shall  now  bother  me  less. 

But  let  me  see!     You  need  a  mother's  breast. 

Just  now  that  is  the  most  important  thing. 

Oh,   yes!    that   woman   living    near    my   rooms 

Buried    but  yesterday   her    new-born    babe. 

She'll  gladly  nurse  my  child,  of  course  she  will 

For  money  she  would  nurse  the  devil's  own." 

Such  were  his  thoughts  while  slowly  home  he  went. 
Through  narrow  lanes  and  hidden  paths  he  walked 
To  his  own  subterranean  dark  cave. 


THE  APOSTLE  23 

His  neighbor  he  aroused  by  knocking  loud 
And  louder  still,  upon  her  door.  "Get  up!" 
He  yelled  and  almost  battered  down  her  door. 

"Come  woman,  hurry  up!"  the  old  man  plead. 

"Light  up   a  candle  quick,   don't  ask:  for  what? 

For  whom?  and  why?     If  you  don't  hurry  up 

I'll   burn   the  house   up   o'er  your   lazy  bones. 

Well,  well  at  least!  and  thanks,  here  is  the  light, 

Now  take  this  babe,  sit  down,  give  him  your  breast. 

Ah,    nurse   it  well!     How    does   it   come  to   me? 

I   found  it  on  my  way,   God's  gift  to  me. 

I   always   said  it:  God  is  good  to  me. 

God  loves  me  more  than  Priests  might  think  He  does 

This  baby  here  a  precious  treasure  is, 

I  place  it,  woman,  now  into  your  care; 

And  more  attention  than  you  gave  your  own 

Give  this   one  or  I'll  have  something  to  say. 

Of  course  for  all  expense  you  look  to  me, 

We  will  agree  how  much  I'll  have  to  pay. 

While  it  is  true  that  money  now  is  scarce, — 

The   dickens  knows,   all   men   seem   argus-eyed, — 

Don't  worry,  I   shall  pay  you  like  a  prince. 

Let  me  impress   you  though;   take   care   of  it, 

As  if  it  were  the  apple  of  your  eye, 

It  is  the  hope  of  my  declining  days." 

They  bargained  and  agreed.     She  took  the  child, 

Which  sucked  with  eager  greed  the  preferred  breast, 

Imbibed   sweet   nurture   for   a  bitter  life. 

Just  one  clay  old  and  what  has  it  g.one  through! 

And   still   will  have  to  go  through  all  its  life! 

i 


VI. 


Next  day,  at  early  hour,-  the  old  man   called 
Upon    the   woman. — "Well,  how   is   your   guest?" 
He  asks  her  eagerly, — "but  Brrr!  't  is  cold! 
Quick,  build  a  fire!     Must  I  forever  swear? 
I   stand  for  all   expense!     But — by  the  way, — 


24  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

You  didn't  tell.     Is  it  a  boy  or  girl?" 

— "It  is  a  boy,  a  strong  and  healthy  boy, 

Yes,  sir,  a  finer  boy  I  never  saw." 

"So  much  the  better.     In  eight  years  from   now, 

He'll  be  as  fine  a  thief  as  was  the  one 

Who  with   our  Jesus   Christ   was   crucified. 

I'll  take  his  education  in  my  hands, 

And  make  of  him  the  most   successful  thief. 

That  far-famed  thief,  who  but  few  days  ago 

Upon  the  gallows  died. — (You  knew  Blind  Tom? 

I    brought   him   up!     There   was   a    clever   thief! 

On  one  eye  blind  himself,  a  thousand  eyes 

Watched  all  in  vain  when  Blind  Tom  was  aroused. 

Miy  boy,  fear  naught,  I   swear  I'll  not  make  you 

A   swineherd  or  some  common  thing  like   that! 

i But,  my  good  woman,  I   almost  forgot! 

The   boy  must   have   a   decent   Christian   name! 

A  name  which  'he'll  make  famed  throughout 

the  world. 

Come,  dear  old  girl,  help  me  to  find  a  name. 
On  'Saint   Sylvester   eve   I    found  the  boy 
Why  not  give   him  that  name?     Let's  baptize  him, 
Let  him  a  Christian,   not  a  'heathen  be. 
Saint  Peter  at  the  gate,  when  once  my  boy 
Casts   off   his   mortal   coil,    must   find   no   fault. 
I'll  be  the   Priest,  the  god-mot'her  you'll  be. 
Is  there  some  water  in  that  pot?     There  is. 
Come.,   hold   the   boy, — 'but  no!     The   priestly   garb 
Is  most  essential;  wait.     There  is  that  bag, 
I  hang  it  as  a  cassock  'round  my  neck." 
And  then  with  mock  solemnity,  the  boy 
Was  jocularly  christened  and  received 
Sylvester  as  his  first  and  lawful  name. 


VII. 

Four  years  have  passed.  To  boyhood  grew  the  babe, 
There  in  the  darkness,  in  the  cave,  he  grew 
By  vice  surrounded  and  by  vermin   plagued. 
He   did   not  breathe  the  heaven's  balmy  air, 


THE  APOSTLE  25 

The  beauty  of  the  fields  he   never  saw. 

He   lived,   he   moved  about,   but  was  like  dead. 

The  old  man  found   in   him  his  great  delight. 
For    brain    and    aptitude    he    plainly    showed, 
As  from  the  flint  spring  sparks.    The  old  man  knew 
It  is  the  spark  which  makes  the  fires  ignite. 

Four  years  of  age — and  he  had   learned  to  steal: 

Fruit  from  a  stand  and  coins  from  blind  man's  hats. 

For  each  such  deed  the  old  man  praised  him  high, 

Rewarded   him   with   some  token  of  love. 

The  same  time  he  would  reprimand  him,  too, 

The  days  on  which  the  boy  brought  nothing  home, 

These  days,  however,  were  now  very  rare. 

The  hopes  and  expectations  of  the  man 

Grew  day  by  day  and  on   his  day-dreams'   rocks 

He  built  the  finest  castles  in  the  air. 

He   built   them    high,    until   himself   was    caught, 

The   good  old  man,  the  thoughtful  guardian, — 

Until  he  swung  himself,  up  in  the  air, 

The   ripe   fruit  of  the   tree  as   "gallows"  known. 

The  woman  wfoo  had  nursed  and  fed  the  boy 

Was  present  when  the  hangman  made  the  knot 

Which    made    her    friend    and    benefactor    swing 

Upon  the  gallow's  beams,  hanged  by  the  neck, 

His  tongue  protrudes  as  had  Tie  stuck  it  out 

To  show  his  own  contempt  at  all  the  world 

For  dealing  with  him  thus.     When  all  was  o'er, 

The  beldame  goeth  home  and  to  the  boy 

With   gentlest,   sweetest  voice  she  spoke  like  this: 

"Get  ready  boy,  the   devil   can  take  you  now, 

And  in  the  name  of  God  now  go  to  hell, 

W!ho  for  your  keep  had  paid  is  gone  there  too. 

Now  that   his   payments   stop,    I    too   must   stop 

To  feed  you,  and  my  boy  you  have  to  go! 

I   shall  be  kind  enough  to  you  once  more, 

I  take  you  to  the  corner  of  the  street; 

If  you  come  back,  I'll  drown  you  in  the  ditch." 


26  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  little  boy   did  not  grasp  all   she  said. 

When  lead  away  and  told  to  go:  he  went. 

By   instinct    he   obeyed  and   never   turned  - 

But  walked  and  walked  from  street  to   street. 

He  never  yet  had  been  so  far  from  home, 

All  that  his  eyes  beheld  was  new  to  him. 

The   splendid   shops,    the   marvelous    displays 

And  men  and  women  clad   in   wondrous   style. 

Amazed  he   looked  at  thousands  of   new  things. 

One  street  leads  him  into  another  street 

And  never  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 

From   marching  long,  from  marveling  great   deal 

He"  had  grown  tired.     A  curbstone  proffers  rest. 

Contented  leans  on  it  ihis  weary  head. 

From  where  he  sits,  he  sees  some  boys  at  play, 

He  smiles  and  thinks  their  toys  are  also  his 

And  that  he  himself  is  their  welcome  chum. 

He  watched  their,  play  until  he  fell  asleep. 

He  had  a  good  long  sleep,  then  in  a  dream 

Saw   two    red    burning    sparks    acoming   near 

And  nearer  still,  intent  to  burn  his  eyes. 

He  shrieked  with  fright  and  suddenly  awoke. 

Late  night  was  on,  the  stars  on  high  shone  bright, 

The   streets   were   empty,   but  before   him   stood 

A    hag,    whose    glaring   eyes    the    boy    feared    more 

Than  he  had  feared  the  sparks  his  dream  had  seen. 

The  curbstone  he  holds  fast,  he  is  afraid 

To  look  at  her  or  turn  his  eyes  away. 

The  hag  though,  pats  him   in  a  friendly  way, 

And  gently  as  is  given  to  her  to  be, 

She  asks  of  him:  "What  is  your  name,  my  boy? 

Who  are  your   parents?  and  where  do  you  live? 

Shall    I    escort    you  "home?      Come,    take    my   hand. 

"Sylvester  is  my  name,  I  have  no  one 

I   father,   mother    call.     I   never   had. 

I    was   first   found   upon   the   public   street. 

The   woman   said:    Never   again   come  home, 

If  you  come  back,  I'll  drown  you  in  the  ditch." 

'"Then  come,  my  darling  boy,  then  come  with  me. 
A  loving  mother  I  shall  be  to  you." 


THE  APOSTLE  27 

The  woman  then  took  by  the  hand  the  boy, 
Who  meekly  followed   her  wonderingly 
And  knowing  not  what  had  happened  to  him. 
"See,  my  dear  boy,  this  is  our  home",  s'he  said 
When  she  had   reached   her   home.     "This  room 

is   mine, 

The  kitchen   here    shall    henceforth   be   your  home. 
You  will   not  lonely  be,  my  pet  dog  here, — 
A  nice  dog,   is  he  not? — will   s'hare  with  you 
This  carpet,  it  is  big  enough  for  both. 
It  is  a   splendid   bed,   you   cannot  ask 
A   better   one.     The   dog  will   keep   yon   warm. 
Be  not  afraid  of  him,  he  does  not  bite, 
He   is   a  gentle   dog.     You   will   be   friends. 
See  him  looking  at  you,  wagging  his   tail. 
I  have  no   doubt  you  will   each  other  like, 
As   if  you  brothers  were.     Now  go  to   sleep. 
You   want    something,   to    eat?     It   is    not   good 
That   children    eat    at   night.     In   awful    dreams 
And  nightmares  devils  tease  them  in  their  sleep." 
Much  better'tis,  go   nicely  now  to  sleep." 
The  miserable  hag  left   him  alone. 
With   terror   trembling   he   lay   down   at   last 
Upon  the  carpet's  edge,  but  not  too  close 
To  his    companion.     The    dog   howe'er 
Crawled   up  to   him   in  a  most  friendly  .way. 
The  animal's  bright   eye   shone   in   the   night 
And  courage,   confidence   conveyed  to  him. 
The   boy   petted   the   dog  which   licked   his  face. 
The  boy  e'en  spoke  to  him,  for  a  reply 
The  dog  whined  and  the  two  were  soon  good  friends. 


Upon  the  morn  thus   spoke  the  dame  to  him: 
"Listen   to   me,   my  boy,   you'll   clearly   see 
I   cannot  keep  you  here  without  some  pay. 
Not  -e'en   the  grave   of   Christ   is   being  watched 
For  nothing,.     You  will   have  to  go  to  work. 
The  Bible  even  says:    W|ho  do  not  work 
Get   naught   to   eat.     Your  work   will  easy  be, 
You  shall  have  nothing  else  to  do  but  beg. 


28  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I'am  too  worn  to  work  and  I  have  grown  too  fat. 
The  men  are  heartless  and  they  chase  me  off 
If  I   for  alms   stretch  out  my  greasy  hands. 
Now  you  must  beg  for  me,  when  men  see  you 
Their   hearts  must  move   in   tender  sympathy 
And  freely  give  their  mite.     You'll  have  to  say 
Your  father  died,  your  mother  's  ill  at  home, 
I'll  watch  you  from  the  distance  and  I  say 
If  you  heed  my  commands  you  will  fare  well. 
Be  careful  boy,   I'm  good  when  I  am  good, 
But  I  am  very  mean  when  I  am  mean. 
Remember  this  and  never  let  it  pass 
Out  of  your  mind.     You  will  abegging  go. 

i  You   will   stretch    out  your  hand   to   everyone 
Who's   better   dressed   than  you,   and   I'll   look  out 
That  those  you  meet  shall  all  be  of  this  class. 
You'll  drop  your  head  upon  one  side  like  this, 
Your  eyebrows  draw  up,  see — ,  as  I   do  now, 
Your  eyelids  moist  be  always  moist  and  then 
You  whine  and  whimper:   "In  the  name   of  Christ 
Please  help!     My  father's  dead,  my  mother's  sick," 
Did  you  catch  on?     You'll  have  to  learn  the  art, 

'jOr  with  a  tcane  I  beat  it  in  your  head." 

The  boy  said  he  has  understood  her  well, 
He'll   not  iorget  it  and  he  will  not  fail. 
She  made  'him  try  to  do  the  trick,  and  lo! 
She  was  amazed  how  clever  was  his  work. 

"A  gold  mine  I  have  found  in  you,  my  boy, 
Bravo!     Henceforth    we'll    lead    a    princely   life. 
A  princely  life  is  ours!"  the  witch  exclaimed. 
"Let's  to  the  harvest  go.     Would  you  first  eat? 
You'll  eat  when  we  come  back,  'tis  better  then; 
'Tis  anyhow  -the  best  you  don't  eat  much, 
You'll  grow  too  fat  and  who  does  sympathise 
With  beggar  boys  who  are  well  fed  and  fat, 
To  beggars  who  are  fat  come  meager  alms." 
The  two  then  went  into  a  busy  street, 
The  hag  assigned  him  to  a  certain  spot, 
Herself  went  into   a  gin  mill   near  by 


THE  APOSTLE  29 

From  whence  she  watched  the  boy  and  foully 

grinned 

And  raised  her  whiskey  glass'  whene'er  she  saw 
Him  harvesting   the   mite   of   charity. 


VIII. 


Two   years,    one   like   the   other   slowly  passed, 

The  boy  did  naught, — the  beldame  took  good  care, — 

But  beg  for  alms  and  suffer  hunger's  pangs. 

To  famish   and  to  beg   thafs  all  lie  knew 

Of  life.     WJien   he   saw   children   at  .their  play, 

He'd  stare  at  them  and  think:  it  must  be  good 

To  be  allowed  to  play  and  joyous  be. 

From  day  to  day  his  mind  grew  more  mature 

And  he  began  to  feel  his  misery. 

Two  years  he  had  thus  lived:  a  begger  boy. 

There   was   no  longer  need   with   artful  trick 

To  wet  his  eyelids,  his  hot-burning  tears 

Flowed  oft  enough  to  suit  the  old  hag's  aims. 

He  had  one  friend,  but-  one  who  had  been  kind, 
Who  seemed  to  love  him,  whom  he  really  loved, 
With  whom  he   shared  the   food  received  at  home, 
Or  which  he  found  while  wandering  through  town, 
His  sleeping-mate,  the  dog,  was  this  one  friend: 

When  in  the  morn  the  boy  would  go  away 
His  heart  was  sore,  all  day  he  longed  for  him. 
Returning  in  the  eve  he  was  all  joy. 
The   woman   soon  'had   truly  jealous   grown, 
Yes,  jealous    of   the   love  the    dog  had   shown 
To  him,  the  boy,  and  was  estranged  from  her.   • 
She  often  whipped  the  dog  and  when  with  pain 
It  whined,  the  boy  heartrendingly  would  cry. 
At  last  she  chased  the  animal  away 
And  more  than  once   she  drove  it  from  the  house. 
The  faithful  beast,  though,  always  would  come  back, 
And  was  the  more  attached  to  our  poor  boy. 


30  ALEXANDER -PETOFI 

Thus  lived  the  boy.     He  was  six  years  of  age, 

Woe  of  six  centuries  had  been  his  share, 

The  moments'  bliss  were  far  and  far  between. 

He  stood  once  on  the  corner  of  a  street, 

Chilled  through  and  through,  it  was  late  in  the  fall, 

A  nasty  autumn  eve,  mire  on  the  earth, 

The  air  filled  with  a  heavy,  chilling  fog. 

And  there  he  stood, — his  head  and  feet  were  bare, 

With   tearful  voice  imploring  passers-by    . 

And   stretching   forth    his   bony,    yellow  'hand. 

His   plaintive   voice,   when    heard   by   human   hearts 

Oft  seemed  to  have  the  mournful  toll  of  bells 

Which  to  the  last  rites  in  the  churchyard  called. 

A  hoary  man  with  earnest,  solemn  face  , 

Came  up  to  him,  stood  still  and  looked  at  him 

For  quite  a  while  with  sharp  and  piercing  eyes. 

The  boy  took  fright,  made  start  to  run  away, 

A  rough  command:  "stop  boy!"  prevents  his  flight, 

The  boy  stood  still,  he  did  not  dare  to  breathe. 

"Are  your  parents  alive?"  he  is  then  asked. 

"My-My", — he  was  about  to  say  his  say 

About  his  mother  who  is  ill  at  home, 

And   hungry,   too;   the   father   who  just  died, 

But   to   the   solemn   looking  earnest  man 

He  did  not  dare  to  lie;  he  thought  the  man 

Knew  anyhow  the  truth  and  ;he  replied: 

"Are  my  parents  alive?  I   do  not  know, 

I   never  knew,   I   was   found  in  the  street!" 

"Then  -come  with-  me",  the  old  man  to  him  said. 

Obedient,    the    boy   followed    his    steps. 

The  old  hag  came  forth  from  her  hiding  place 

And  yelled:    "Come   here,   lying,   deceitful  boy, 

My  dear,   good   Sir,  this   boy  here  is   my  own." 

"Dear,    gracious   Sir," — t'he   boy  began   to  plead, 

"Dear  gracious  Sir,   believe,   I'm   not   her   son. 

Please  in  the  name  of  God  and  all  the  Saints 

O,  save  me,  please,  take  me  along  with  you. 

I  am  so  tired  to  do  naught,  else  than  beg; 

I  always  begged  for  her,  I  had  to  starve 

That  I  might  always  look  as  I  do  now. 

That   those  who  look  at  me  might  pity  me. 


THE  APOSTLE  31 

0  God!  how  hungry  I  am  even  now!" 

Thus   spoke  the  boy,  he  looked  up   to  the   man 
With  pleading  eyes  which  were  suffused  with  tears. 
"You    God-forsaken   wretch!      You   devil's   imp!" 
— Berated    him    the    witch, — "You    heartless    cur, 
You    good-for-not'hing,    vile   and    worthless    shrimp! 
How   dare  you   say  you  'had  to  beg  for  me? 
To  teg  for  me?  I   feel  shamed  unto  death 
That  he,  the  moment  I  lose  him  from  sigjit 
Runs  off  to  beg, — the  habit  grew  on  him 
Despite   the   spanking   he   from   me   received. 
To   bring  such   shame  upon   my  hoary   head! 

1  am  but  poor  but  I  need  not  to  beg, 
With  'honest   work  I    can   support   myself. 
And   then  to   say   that   I   force   him  to   starve! 
I,   who    no   greater   happiness   have   known 

Than    yielding    him    the    choicest,    wholesome   food, 

Deny  it  to  myself  to  give  to  him. 

All   this  howe'er  is   naught!     What  does  he  do? 

He   dares  'his  doting  mother  to  deny! 

Did  not  your   heart   break   into   twain,   you   wretch, 

You  miserable  beast  in  human  form, 

Your  mother  to   deny!     What  you  said  now 

Came   from  your   gall,   your   liver  and   your  spleen, 

Not  from  your  heart!     The  earth  -has  never  known 

A   granny   more   loving   than    I    have  been. 

The  day  of  judgment  can't  be  far  away 

When  children   dare  their  mothers  to  deny." 

The  ancient  windmill  ground  this  with  one  breath, 

Until,  at  last,  the  man  broke  in  her  speech: 

"Enough!     I've  heard  enough!     You  foul  old  witch. 

This  comedy  must   stop,  or  with  this  cane 

I'll  have  to  put  the  fear  of  God  in  you! 

Why,   even  now  you  are   full  beastly  drunk. 

When    sober,    bring  his    birth    certificate 

;To   me, — I    live   in    yonder    spacious    house, — 
And  you  can  have  the  boy,  but  only  if 

'You    can    produce    the    birth-certificate, 
Not  otherwise!  and  now,  boy,  follow  me!" 

The  boy  followed   the  man.     From  time  to  time 


32  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

He  furtively  looked  back,  as  if  in   fear 

That  she,  the  gruesome  hag,  would  grab  at  him 

And  wring  his  neck. or  drag  him  to  her  home. 

However  she   stood  still  and  all  she  did 

Was  that   she  raised  her  fist  and   cursed  aloud 

And   rolled   fiery   eyes   which   sparkled   like 

The   irons   of  the  smith   to   white-heat   raised. 


IX. 

The  boy's   fate   turned.     He   now  saw   better   days, 

No   more  was   he   compelled  to   steal   or   beg. 

What  happiness!     What  bliss!     Once  in  a  while 

Howe'er  he  feared  the  old  hag,  might  yet  bring 

His  birth  certificate  and  drag  'him  off, 

And  if  she  did,  what  could  then  be  his  fate. 

And  here  and  there  the  dove  Of  sorrow  and  regret 

Would   hover  over  him,   came  to  his  mind 

The  friend  and  chum  he  left  be'hind:   the  dog, 

And  for  the   dog  he'd  almost  willing  be 

To  'his  old  home  to  go  again  to  beg 

That   he   again   might  be   with   his  one   friend. 

He  often  dreamed  of  him  and  in  his  dreams 

He  held  the  dog  in  his  loving  embrace, 

Who  gently  gladly  lapped  his  hand  and  face. 

When  waking  from  his  sleep  the  poor  boy  wept 

Because  but  in  a  dream  he  saw  his  friend. 

When  with  the  gentleman  he  had  come  home 
He    was    consigned   by   him   to    servants'    care 
Who  cleaned  him  of  the  dirt  of  all  the  years 
And   dressed   him  into  new  and   decent  clothes. 

How  well  he  felt.     As  had  he  never  lived 

And  had  been  born  but  now,  a  happy  boy. 

The  old  man  then  commanded  him:  "Come  here, 

And  list  to  what  I  have  to  say  to  ^you." 

['This  boy  here  is  my  son,  your  master  he, 
/And  you  must  always   call  him   "gracious   Sir"! 


33 

' 

He  is  your  master,  you  his  servant  are, 

He   will   command,  you   must   obey   his   will. 

You  'have  naught  else  to  do  but  to  obey, 

Be   prompt   and   be  exact;    remember   well, 

One  look   of  his   and   you  must   do   his  bid. 

All  will  be  well  if  you  submissive  are, 

You'll  feed  well  and  you  will  wear  decent  clothes, 

But  should  you  not  obey:  mark  what  I  say, 

The   rags   in   which   I   found   you   you   get  back, 

You'll  be  expelled  from  here  and  you  can  go 

To  be  the  beggar  boy  you  were  before." 

The  orphan  boy  became  a  faithful  slave. 

He  stood  and  walked  beside  his  youthful  lord 

As  if  his  living  shadow  he  had  been: 

He  watched  his   every  move  and  his  commands 

Had  hardly  been  expressed  when  they   were  filled. 

The  boy  howe-er  was  made  to  suffer  much. 

The  youthful  master,  like  all  of  his  ilk, 

Was  a  contemptuous  little  autocrat 

Who   never   ceased  to  make   him   feel   that   he 

The  lord  and  master  is  and  he  the  slave. 

For  instance,   if  the  hot  soup   burned   his   lips 

He'd  turn  upon  the  boy  and  slap  his  face. 

If  someone  did  not  doff  the  hat  to  him 

He'd  knock  the  boy's  hat  off  with  brutal  glee. 

When   combing  he  awkwardly  -used  the   comb 

He'd  fall  upon  the  boy  and  pull  his  hair. 

There   was   no   mean,    no  vile,    dastardly   trick 

The  young  lord  would  not  play  upon  his  slave. 

Maliciously  he  would  step  on  his  toes, 

Then  kick  at  him  and  say:  "You're  in  my  way." 

Besmear  with  mud  the  boy,  then  deal  him  blows 

Because  he  dared  to  come  to  him  unclean, 

Throw  water  in   his  face  and  when  he  wept 

He  called  him  by  the  foul  name  "bastard-boy". 

The  poor  boy  suffered  much."    From  day  to  day 

His    sufferings    increased.     He    bore   it    all. 

He  bore  it  all  with  patience  like  a  man 

Within  whom  lives  a  high  and  noble  soul. 


34  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Why  did  he  bear   it?     Why  did  he   not  leave 

As  it  had  been  so  often  in  his  mind? 

Ah!  if  you  only  knew  why  he  remained! 

The   sweetness   of   the   bread,   the    decent  clothes 

Were  not  what  kept  him  back  when  more  than  once 

He  was  about  to  run  away. 

He  was  not  like  the  chicken  or  the  goose 

Which   wanders   off  but   will   come   home   to   roost, 

Unlike  the  lark,   unlike  the  nightingale 

Which  freed  from  cage  where  dainty  food  is  theirs, 

Forever  leave  the  same  and  are  content 

To    seek    subsistence    in    sweet    freedom's   air. 


Thus  felt  the  boy  and  yet  he  had  remained, 
The  bird  in  cage,  for  freedom  pined  and  yet 
\Like  chicken  and  the  goose  he  stayed  •a.t  home, 
Whene'er   he    started    he    came   always   back. 
What  brought  him  back?  His  thirst  to  learn,  to  know. 
/Standing   behind    his    youtful   lord,    he   learned, 
/He  peeped   into   his   books,   heard   every   word 
'The  tutor  said.     The   real   pupil  was   he. 
He  learned  with  ease  and  he  could  read  and  write 
Much   sooner   than   his   highborn,   youthful   lord. 
And   as  the  years   passed   by,   his   knowledge   grew 
As  yearly  grow  the  antlers  of  the  deer, 
And  he  began  to  feel  proud  of  himself. 
Did,  as  was  oft  the  case,  his  gracious  chief 
Talk    nonsence.   he.   all    to    himself,    unheard, 
Corrected   him   and  pitifully   smiled 
At  such  clule  ignorance  he  saw  displayed. 


The   tutor   noted   all.     He   could   not   help 

Impressed  to  be  with  the  superior  mind 

And  intellect  of  our  poor  servant  boy. 

He'd  call  on  him  the  lessons  to  recite 

In   which  the  master  failed,  although  the  boy 

Had   learned   them   but   by   hearing   them   read   off. 

The  tutor  tried  his  pupil  thus  to  shame. 


THE    APOSTLE  35 

The  servant  boy  carried  the   honors  off, 

The   vicious   master   though   revenged  'himself, 

For  humbling  him,  his  vanity  and  pride. 

From   day  to  day  he   would   subject  the  boy 

To  more  and  more  indignities  most  base, 

From  day  to   day  our  poor  boy  suffered  more, 

He    felt   how    undeserved   the   master's    blows, 

Which  n-o  longer  caused  his  bones  to  ache 

But    pained    his    soul,    his    manhood    felt    disgraced. 

He  'had   now  reached  his  sixteenth  year  of  age. 

Each  day  which  he  had  lived  within  that  house 

Had  brought  a  ray  of  light  into  his  mind, 

And  every  ray  a  message  brought  to  him, 

A  message  which  to  'him  conveyed  these  thoughts: 

"Why  am  I  treated  here  with  cruel  blows? 

By  what   right   does  one   hit  another  man? 

Did  not  our   God   create   all   men   alike? 

'Tis  said  our  God  is  just;  if  He  is  just 

He   must  love  all  humanity  alike. 

I'll  bear  no  longer  this,  whate'er  shall  come. 

True,  I  am  fed  and  dressed,  I  have  a  home, 

My  services,  no  less,  I  give  as  pay, 

It  is  not   charity  that   I    receive. 

They  have  the  right  to  ask  my  services, 

But  not  at  all  with  cruel  blows  to  strike. 

If  they  strike  me  once  more,  I  swear  by  God 

That  it  shall  be  the  last  time  that  they  do. 


It   came   to   pass.     The   chance   came  soon    enough. 
When   his  young  master  raised  his   hand  to   strike. 
But  lo!  the  servant  rose.     "Stop,  Sir!"  he  cried, 
"Don't   dare   to   touch   me   any  more.     Beware! 
If  you  again  strike  me,  I'll  pay  in  kind, 
Give  blow  for   blow,   unto  your   dying   day 
You'll   not   forget   the  thrashing  I'll   give  you. 
'I've  ben  a  dog  now  long  enough;  henceforth 
I   am   a   man!    the   slave,   too,   is   a  man. 
Yes,  it  is  true,  one  hand  here  had  been  kind 
Another  hand,   though,   nullified  it  all 


36 

With  heartless  blows.     We  are   all   even  now 
We   do  not  owe   each  other  anything." 

The   youthful   master   with   amazement   filled 
Stood  overawed,  but  soon  in  curses  foul 
And   yells   gave    went    to   his   high    wrought-up    ire. 
"Mean  low-life  serf!   ungrateful  rebel  knave!" 
Our  boy  howe'er  broke  in.     His  voice  betrayed 
Contempt   supreme:     You   call   me   low-life  serf, 
Who   knows   if  not  of  nobler  race   has   been 
My  father  than  is  yours  or  all  his  kin; 
That  he  disowned  me  was  his  fault,  not  mine; 
And  if  all   gentlemen   have   hearts  and   souls 
.Like  yours,  thank  God  then  that  he  cast  me  off, 
jBecause  of  my  own  making  now  a  man 
jOf  worth  and  faith  and  deed  I'll  try  to  be. 
You  say  a  rebel. I!   Sir!   You  are  wrong. 
Is  it  rebellious  to  feel,  to  say 
That  I  too  am  a  man  like  other  men! 
Ah!  if  I  could  express  what  now  I  feel, 
What   stirs   my  heart,  in  language   adequate: 
My   speech  would  cause  the  millions  to   rise, 
The  world  would  shake  as  trembled  ancient  Rome 
When    Spartacus   stood    'fore   the   mighty   walls, 
His   gladiators   with   their   broken   chains 
Belaboring   and   causing  them  to   fall. 
Yes,    gracious    Sir,   we    two    now   part    fore'er. 
I  spoke  to  you  as  speaks  a  man  to  man. 
When  once  the  slave  his  manhood  did  assert 
Of  hunger  he  might  die,  die  on  the  stake, 
But  nevermore  he'Jl  be  a  slave!     Good-bye!" 
He  turned  upon  his  heels  and  left  the  house. 
He  left  fore'er  the  home  in  which  his  life 
Had  floated  over  all  the  years,  as  floats, 
A  flower   o'er  the  surface  of  a  pond. 

He  went  into  the  world,  he  knew  not  where, 
He  had  no  aim.     The  flame  of  youth  leaped  up 
And  burned  within  his  soul,   as  burns  a  town 
Of  fire    which  is  fanned  by  giant  force. 


THE   APOSTLE  37 

Beyond  the  city's  gate  he  was  caughtup 

Wh      YTf  ,m?ster's   tutor'   whogset  out 
When  he  had  left  resolved  to  bid  farewell 

Had°n^r°F  b.°y'     9h[  h°W  the   dear  old  »« 
wi  Exhausted   he   could   hardly  breathe 

Without  cessation  he  his  forehead  mopped 
The   while   he  to   the  youth   in   broken   speech 

—Disjointed  did  it  seem— these  word  adressed: 

Here   my  dear  boy,   this   money  you  must  take, 
It  is  my  wage  for  one  whole  year;  for  you— 
[f  you  are  frugal— 'tis  enough  for  years. 

In  time  to  come  a  great  man  you  will  be 

I  tell  you  this,  I   never  yet  have  seen 

A  boy  of  mightier  mind  and  intellect 

Than    you.     Your    sentiments    are    also    mine, 

I  feel  like  you   ;  alas!     I  did  not  dare 

To  speak  as  boldly,  freely,  as  you  did. 

How  I   admired  you!     God  bless  you,  boy!! 

But  listen  boy,  I  give  you  no  advice, 

'Tis  a  command  I   give!     Go  on!  and  learn! 

Your   studies   you   must   finish   at   the   schools 

Or  I  shall  curse  and  God  shall  punish  you. 

You  were  not  born  to  live  but  for  yourself, 

.Your  lot  will  be  to  live  for  all  the  world, 

And   therefore,    I    command:    Go!    study   hard, 

But  no!     This   needeth  no   command   from  me. 

Your  thirst  for  knowledge  is  well  known  to  me. 

And  now,  God  bless  you  my  dear  boy!  Farewell! 

With  all  my  heart  I  wish  you  happiness. 

Once  in  a  while,  dear  boy,  remember  me! 

If  my  command   howe'er  you  do   not  heed 

Then   let  me  forever  forgotten  be." 

The  boy  bent  down  to  kiss  the  good  man's  hand, 
The   other,   though,   would   not   permit  him  that, 
But  drew  him  to   his  breast  and  kissed  his  face 
With   tearfilled   eyes  he  said:   "Farewell!"  and  left. 


38  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  poor  boy  felt  his  heart  beat  strong  with  bliss, 

This   was  the   first   time   in   his  dreary  life 

That  he  received  a  token  of  man's  love. 

For  sixteen  years  he  suffered  agonies 

E'er  he  had  met  a  man  who  had  a  heart 

To  give  him  in   a  brotherly  embrace. 

When  he   had   left   behind   the   narrow   streets 

And   reached   the    open    fields    he    felt    relieved. 

He  felt  as  if  he  were  from  prison   freed 

And   eagerly  he  breathed  God's   free  air. 

His  precious  gift  which  to  the  feet  brings  strength 

And  makes  the  human  soul  to  rise  on  wings. 

Once  he  looked  back,  he  was  far,  far  away, 

The  houses  seemed'  to   be   one  mighty  mass, 

The  dark  church-towers  swallowed  by  the  mist, 

The  noise  of  thousands  was  a  heee-hive's   hum. 

"You  must  not  stop",  the  boy  said  to  himself, 

You  must  not  see  the  place  or  hear  of  it 

Where   until  now  you  lived,   if  it  be  life 

Which  has  been  your's.     And  he  resumed  his  pace 

As  one  who  tries  from  stinging  whips  to  fly. 


At  last  the   city  was  in   distance  lost. 
He  stood  there  in  the  boundless  space  and  felt 
The  first  time  that  he  had  his  freedom  won. 
"At  last  I'm  free!  he  cried.     "Thank  God!  I'm  free!" 
That's  all  he  then  could  say,  his  flowing  tears 
However  were  more   eloquent  than  speech 
Expressed   by   human   tongue   could   ever   be. 
What   sentiments    sublime,    inspiring   thoughts 
Dwell  in  men's  souls  who  are  the  first  time  free! — 
The  boy  went  on  to  where  fair  scenery 
Invited  him.     He  revelled  in  the  sight 
Of   things    most   beautiful,    of    hill    and    vale, 
Of  flowery  field  through  which  the  brooklet  ran, 
vOf  forest  green  in  which  the  song  bird  sang, 
lAmd  all  that  he  beheld  was  new  to  him. 
The  first  time  in  his  life  he   saw  revealed 
Before  him  natures  glorious  radiance. 


THE   APOSTLE  39 

There   is   the   mighty    mountain   wilderness 

Where   thunder,   lightning,   where   the  raving   storm 

The   roaring  fall  of  waters   indicate 

The  uproar  of  the  judgment-day:  below 

Down  in  the  plain  where  silent  flows  the  brook. 

Where   insects'   humming   is   the  greatest   noise:' 

There   he  stood   still,   piously  looked   around, 

And   when  his   eyes   had   feasted   on   the   scene, 

A  holy  sentiment  took  hold  of  him 

He  fell   upon   his  knees   and   prayed   aloud: 

"I   pray  to  Thee  my   God,   I  know  Thee  now, 

I  uttered  oft,  heard  oft  Thy  Holy  Name 

But  until  now  I  knew  not  what  it  meant. 

Fair  nature,  taught  me  who  Thou  art,  taught  me 

To  know  Thy  might,  Thy  boundless  goodness  too! 

Praise  be  to  Thee  my  God,  I  pray  to  Thee 

Because,  at  last,  I  know  now  who  Thou  art!" 

And  wherever   he   went,   found   everywhere 

All  nature  to  be  sweet  and  fair  always. 

The    men    in    it   alone   unhappy    were, 

Foul  misery  and  vileness  ruled  supreme. 

His  own,  he  found,  was  not  the  greatest  ill. 

That   others   more  wretched  were  than   himself 

Gave  him  great  pain.  He  found  that  there  lived  men 

Deserving  more  of  pity  than  himself. 

This  caused  him  his  own  woe  to  disregard, 

The  others'  woe  he  felt  though  all  the  more. 

He   put   his   forehead  on  an  icy  stone 

And  found  in  burning,  bitter  tears  relief. 


XI. 

He   bore   in   mind   what   had   been   told   him 
By  the   good  tutor  when   he   bade   farewell, 
And    generously  gave   money  to   him. 
He  always  bore  in  mind  the   sound  advice 
He   went   to   school   and   earnestly   learned. 
Within   the   circle  of  his   school   colleagues 
He   was  the  moon,  his  fellows  were  the  stars: 


40  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

i 

He  was  admired;  no  love  was   shown  him,  though. 

His  soul's  sublimity  weighed  as  a  stone 

Upon  the   rest,  and  envy,  jealousy 

Ne'er  ceased  their  poisoned  darts  to   shoot  at  him. 

"Why  treat   me   thus?"  he   asked   good   naturedly 

His  classmates  at  the  school.     "I  do  not  learn 

For  my  own  benefit.     I  learn  for  you! 

Believe,  my  friends,  the  knowledge  I  acquire 

Will   of  good  service   be,   not  for  myself 

But  for  the  public  weal.     Ah!   Could  you  look 

Into  this  heart  of  mine,  all  of  you  here 

Would   be  attached   to   me   in~friendship   sweet, 

You'd   love   me   then   as    now   I   am   disliked. 

You'd  love  me  then  as  I  love  all  of  you.     • 

Could   into  the  depths   of  my  soul  you  glance, 

You'd   clearly  see  the   error  of  your  ways. 

You  would   not  clip   the  branches   of  the   tree 

The  shade  and  fruit  of  which  you'll  once  enjoy. 

Ye   poor,   misguided   and   shortsighted   boys, 

A  time  will  come,   O  God!   a  time  will  come 

When  all  of  you  will  love  and  honor  me." 

The  boys  such  speeches  would  with  laughter  greet, 
As  ammunition  use  for  new  assaults, 
Their   guns  of  mockery  aimed  at   his   heart. 

And  he  became  estranged  from  all  the  world, 
Morose,  austere,  a  morbid  lonely  man. 
One   only   friend   he   had:    his   solitude. 

He  lived  among  the  pictures  which  the  world 

Regards  as  phantasies,  to  him  they  were 

Realities,    the    future's    living   forms 

Which   looked  into  his  high   aspiring  soul. 

There,  in  his  solitude,  with  zeal  he  read, 

—  As  is  the  Koran   read  by  Mussulman 

Or  pious  Jew  his  good  old  Bible  reads, — 

The  volume  which  he. over  all  preferred: 

The   story  of  the  world.     What   wondrous   book! 

To  one  man  'tis  the  source  of  bliss  supreme, 


THE    APOSTLE  41 

While  to   another   one   it   brings   despair. 
To   one   'tis   life   and   to  an   another   death. 
It  puts   a  sword  into  one's  hand   and   says 
"Go  forth  into  the  strife,  'tis  not  in  vain, 
You'll  bring   relief   to   all    humanity!" 
While  to  another  one  it  seems  to  say: 
"Discard   the   sword,    thy  efforts   fruitless   are, 
The  world  fore'er  will  be  unfortunate 
As   it   has  been   these   many   thousand   years." 
What  did  he  read?     What  message  came  to  him 
When  he  had  read  and  read  again  the  book? 
What  were  his  thoughts  when  with  his  trembling 

hands 

He  closed  the  book  which  stirred  his  very  soul? 
These  were  his  thoughts:     The  grape's  a  tiny  fruit, 
Which  takes  a  summer  ere  to  ripeness  grows. 
The  earth,  too,  is  a  fruit,  a  mighty  fruit, — 
And  if  the  grape  to  ripen  needs  a  year, 
How   many   seasons    needs   this   mighty   fruit 
Before   'tis   ripe!     Many  a  thousand   years, 
The  grapes  are   ripened   by  the  rays   of  sun, 
And    countless    milliards   of   rays   must   breathe 
Their   warmth   upon  the   fruit  before  'tis   sweet. 
Rays  ripen  too  the  earth,  no  sun-rays  though, 
The  rays  which  do  this  are  the  souls  of  men, 
Of  men  with  great  souls,  but  these  souls  are  rare. 
How  then  can  w<e   expect  earths's   early  growth 
Into  maturity?     I  feel  such  ray  to  be, 
One  of  the  rays  which  aids  earth's  ripening, 
The  life  of  such  a  ray  is  but  a  day. 
I  know  that  when  the  day,  the  longed-for  day 
Of  vintage   comes  at  last  I'll  be  no  more, 
And  not  a  trace  of  my  woVk  shall  be  left: 
M(y  life  howe'er  gains  strength,  my  death  gains 

peace 

To      feel,  to  know  that  I  have  been  a  ray. 
Arise,  my  soul;   Arise   and   do  thy  work. 
No  time,  yea  not  a  moment  must  be  lost 


42  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  task  is  great,  time  flies  and  life  is  short. 

What  is  the  goal  the  world  desires  to  reach? 

'Tis  happiness  and  freedom  is  the  means 

By  which  it  is  attained.     I'll  fight  for  it 

As  countless  thousands  have  for  freedom  fought. 

As   countless  thousands   fell   I   too   may   fall, 

And  gladly  shall  I  yield  my  heart's  last  blood! 

Receive  me  freedom's  martyrs  in  your  -ranks, 

I  swear  allegiance  to  you  for  aye! 

Be  there  one  drop  of  blood  within  my  breast 

Which   does  not  beat  in  truth  for  freedom's  cause: 

Let  it  be  spilled  if  e'en  the  last  it  is, 

And  with  its  flow  my  life  shall  ebb  away!" 

This  was  his  vow. — Men   did  not   hear  it, — true, 
iSBut  God  Almighty  did  and  He  inscribed 
Into   His   sacred  list  of  martyr's   names 
Sylvester's  name,  the  name  of  our  poor  boy. 


XII. 

The  boy  had  grown  to  be  a  youth,  the  youth 
To   manhood   grew.     Year   after  year   rolled   on, 
They  came  and  went  without  a  "farewell"   e'en. 
Nor  did  the  years  spare  him;  each  year  that  came 
Left   traces   on  his  face   and   on   his   heart. 

Long,  long  ago  he  had  finished   his  schools, 
The  great  world  he  had  entered.     There  he  was, 
Amidst  life  and  amongst  men,  in  the  crowd 
Where  at   each   step  of  his  he  gets  a  knock, 
And  each  knock  wipes  the  pollen  off  of  life 
And   wipes   the   healthy  'color   from   man's   face. 

The  world  howe'er,  to  him  seemed  not  to  be 
The  kind  he  thought  the  great,  wide  world  would  be. 
It  shrunk  each  day.     Men  whom  the  Lord  had  made 
In  his  own  image  were   depraved  and  vile. 
Man  who  should  boldly  look  into  the  height, 


THE   APOSTLE  43 

Looks  to  the  dust  of  earth  as  if  to  learn 
From   insects  how  the  crawl  and  how  to  creep. 
But  still,  the  smaller  seemed  to  him  the  man: 
The  greater  was  the  work  himself  assumed 
To  be  his  mission  and  which  to  fulfill 
In  time,  undaunted  did  his  task,  though  small, — 
As  small  as  is  the  labor  of  the  ant, — 
But  just  as  active  as  that  insect  he. 
The   narrow    circle   which   was   his   he   filled 
Completely  with   the  brightness   of  his   soul. 
His  virtues  and  the  keenness  of  his  mind, 
While  yet  at  school  had  made  a  name  for  him 
And  when  his  course  of  studies  finished  were 
From   many   great   ones   flattering   offers   came. 
They  said  to  him:     "Come  and  my  servant  be, 
To  serve  a  man  like  me  is  itself 
A  glorious   thing.     You  bend  your  knee  to  me, 
'Tis  true,  but  thousands  have  to  bow  to  you. 
You"ll  have  naught  else  to  do  than  to  oppress 
These  thousands  and  from  them  to  get  the  most. 
'Tis  easy  work  and  you'll  grow  rich  and  great." 

Sylvester  gratefully   declined  the   call. 

He  said:     "That  I  might  have  serfs  of  mine -own 

I    wouldn't    the    servant    of    another    be. 

I  want  no  fellow  man  to  bow  to  me 

I  know  no  man  who  greater  is  than  I. 

And  I  refuse  my  knees  to  bend  to  you. 

I  know  no  man  who  smaller  is  than  I, 

And  as  to  wealth — I   do  not  care  for  it, 

I  surely  do  not  want  it  as  the  price 

Of  my   oppressing   my   dear   fellowmen." 

Thus  did  he  speak,  and  though  he  bared  his  head, 

He  stood  erect  and  proudly  faced  the  man. 

'i  The  high  position  tendered,  he  declined... 

There   came   to   him   a   few  pour   country  folk 
,  Inviting   him   to    come   to  live  with   them 
'•  And  to  become  their  Village-Notary. 
.Contented,   and   most  happy  to  accept, 


44  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

He  went  into  that  village   and  when   there 

The    poor   inhabitants    surrounded   him 

While   he,   with   flaming  eyes,  adressed   them   thus: 

"Hail,  hail  to  thee,  majestic  people!  List, 

Look  full  into  my  eye!     I'll  be  to  you 

A  teacher  and  a  loving  father,  too. 

E'er  since  your  birth  you  were  taught  to  obey, 

That    duty's    chains   are    strong   was   all   you   knew, 

I  will  instruct  you  in  your  legal  rights." 

And  he  fulfilled  the  promise  he  had  made. 

Thenceforth,   the   peasant  folk,   their  labor  done, 

Did  not,  as   since  time  immemorial, 

Go   to  the   village-inn,  but  went  to   him. 

The   town-hall   square  became  their  meeting  place. 

They  listened  to  their  youthful  Notary; 

The  hoary  man  were  taught  by  the  mere  youth, 

They  listened  more  attentively  to  him 

Than  to   their   priest,   they  understood   him   best, 

And  what  they  learned  the  old  folks  taught  their 

boys. 
The  village  people  held  him  in  esteem. 

Two   houses,    though,    were   in    that   village,   where 
Instead   of  blessings   called  upon  his  head, 
The  young   apostle   was   constantly   cursed. 
One  of  these  houses  that  in  which  the  squire, 
The   other  that   in   which   the   priest   resides: 
They  are  the  Castle  and  the  Parish  house. 
From  day  to   day  our  young  apostle   grew 
More  hated  and  more  feared  by  squire  and  priest. 
The   two   conspired   his   fall   to   bring  about. 
They  saw,  that  they  themselves  are  doomed,  were  he 
Allowed  to  mould  the  people's  intellect. 

Up  in  the  castle,     though,  there  was  a  soul 
Who  felt  for  him  the  same  esteem  as  did 
The  populace;   to  whom   to  hear  him  praised 
Was  joy  and  who  felt  pained  was  he  abused. 
Who   was   this   •soul   who   recognized   his   worth, 


THE   APOSTLE  45 

And  rightly  judged  him  and  his  splendid  work? 
Who  was   this   somebody?     Who   could   it  be, 
But  she,  the  beauteous  daugther  of  the  squire? 
Who  else  could  it  have  been?     A  woman's  heart 
Is  a   most  glorious   harbor.     It   is   closed 
Against  all    selfish   thoughts,  altough  by  stealth 
Or  force  it  might  have  even  entered  there, 
That  heart  though  's  ope  for  all  that  is  sublime 
And   sweet.     Be  persecuted  innocence 
Exiled   form    everywhere,   within  her  heart 
It  always  finds  a  port  of  welcome  rest. 
A  woman's  heart's  indeed  a  glorious  home. 
The  youth  did  not  suspect  at  all  that  he 
By  some  one's  looked  upon  with  kindly  eyes, 
-Has  in  the  castle  one  fair  patroness.    • 
From   time  to   time   he    saw   the   maiden   fair 
When  through  the  village  she  her  way  would  take, 
Or  when   she  from  her  windows  looked  upon 
The  place  beneath,  and  when  he  saw  the  maid 
A  sense  of  loneliness  would  fill  his  heart. 
And  musingly  he  would   speak  to  himself: 
"A  man  is  not  a  citizen  alone, 
"He  also  is  a  man.     Must  he  devote 
"His   life  forever   to  the  public  weal 
"And  never  know  life's  bliss  in  his  own  life? 
Poor  boy!  Willt  thou  e'er  live  thy  own  sweet  life? 
"Thou   spread'st  thy  soul  amongst  thy  fellow  men, 
"Will   ever  there  be   one  who'll   give   her  soul 
"To  thee,  or  give  thereof  a  share,  or  deign 
"To  look  upon  thee  with   a  friendly  smile 
"So  that  thou  may's t  surmise  at  least  that  life 
"Can  really  happy  be?     For  love  athirst 
"A  summer  day's  rain  cannot  quench,  alas, 
"Not   e'en  a  drop   of  dew   gives  me  relief. 
"Do  not  rebel  against  thy  fate,  poor  boy, 
"And  bravely  bear  thy  yoke,  if  thou  but  giv'st 
"To  those  around  thee  bliss:  thou  hast  done  well. 
"Be  like  the  earth  which  grows  the  golden  grain 
"By  others  reaped.     Be  like  the  burning  wick 
"Which  by  the  waning,  of  its  life  spreads  light." 


46  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

111  or  good  fortune  brought  it  once  about 

That  she  once  met  the  youth  and  spoke  to  him. 

They  met  but  for  a  moment  and   exchanged 

A  word  or  two;  that's  all,  and  yet  thenceforth 

They  often  met;  who  knows?  was  it  mere  chance? 

Was   it  intent?    The  two  themselves  knew  not. 

All   unawares    their   meetings   grew   more   long, 

More   confidential   too,   altough   the   two 

Of  their  own  selves  would  never  speak  a  word. 

However   once, — the   youth   e'en   did    not   know 

'Had  she  been  asking  it  or  did  he  speak 

Unasked, — impulsively, — he  told  the  maid 

The  story  of  his  life;  how  lonely  he, 

Forsaken  and   alone;  he  never  had 

A   brother  or  a  friend,  was   never  called 

"My  son",  "my  boy",  and  how  he  had  been  found 

Out  in  the  street  by  one  who  was  a  thief, 

How  then  a  beggar-wench  adopted   him, 

And  how  he  then  became  a  servant  mean. 

His  early  years  thus  passed:  he  stole,  he  begged, 

Did  menial  work.     He  spoke  then  of  the  woe 

And  agony  that  weighed  upon  his  soul 

W,hile   growing,  up:    more    awful    even   were 

These  than  the  days  of  yore.     The  retrospect, — 

It  seemed  he  looked  Into  a  putrid  pool, — 

Made  his  own  soul  to  overflow  with  pain. 

Hot  burnings  tears  he  shed,  as  siheds  its  blood 

An   army  beaten   on   the  battlefield... 

And  she,  the  maiden,   also  wept  with  him. 


That   very   day  he   met  the   maiden's   Sire. 

Quite   different  the  interview  with  him.^ 

The  proud  lord  of  the  manor  sent  for  him, 
]  Gave   him   a   tongue-lashing  most   merciless, 
!  Accused   him   of   having  his   vassals  led 
'.Astray,   made   rebels   dangerous  of  them; 

That  if  he  dared  with  such  work  to  proceed 


THE    APOSTLE  47 

He'd   drive  him  from  the  village  in   disgrace. 

With    dignity  the   young   man   thus^  replied: 

"Sir!    I    forbid   you   thus   to   le'cture   me, 

No   schoolboy  I,   but   even  not  at  school 

Did   I   permit  thus  to  be  spoken  to. 

If  I  have  sinned,  if  to  rebellion  I 

Incited   men, — there   is   the   law!   the   law 

Can  punish  me.     Did  I   commit  no  crime 

Who  gives  to  you  the  right  to  chastise  me/! 

I  do  not  heed  your  threat  to  drive  me  off, 

It  does  not  frighten  me;   to  earn  my  bread 

I   can   go  anywhere.     I    shall  not  leave 

This   place   howe'er,   because   I   feel   at   home, 

I  know  I  am  of  use,  I  fill  my  place. 

You  will  not  drive  me  off  for  your  OWTI  good. 

If  you   did  the  people  would  follow  me 

Or  they  would   turn  on   you  and   from  your  home 

And   hearth   would   exile   you.     This   is   not  said 

To  threaten  you,  but  as  a  sound  advice. 

I   know   the  populace,   I   know  they  love 

And  honor  me  and  what  they'd   do   for  me!" 

Thus  spoke  the  youth,  then  bowed  and  went  away. 

Upon    the    Sunday    following,    the    priest 
Preached  to  his  congregation  in  this  wise: 

."This  man  is  awful,  and  he  should  be  feared, 

'An  atheist  and  agitator  he. 

'  If  you  allow  him  to  remain  with  you 
You're  lost  in  this  and  in  the  world  to  come. 
Those   who    remain  his   friends   forfeit   their  lives 
To  our  good  king  and  on  the  gallows  die, 
Nor  can  their  souls  e'er  heaven's  Kingdom  reach, 
Eternally   are    damned   their  souls   and   lost." 
Besought  and  warned  them  to  heed  his  words 
Ere   it  is  late.     With  tearful   eyes   he  prayed: 
"Oh  save  your  lives,  your  heavenly  bliss  oh  save! 
Death  and   perdition  should  not  be  your  choice 
But  choose  a  happy  life  and  heaven's  rewards." 
Their  ire   aroused,   the  people  left  the  church, — 


48  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  House  of  God,  the  House  of  Peace  'tis  called,— 
Like  wild  beasts  wounded  in  the  hunt,  they  ran 
To  him  whom  yesterday  "our  father"  named, 
Made  to  him  known:  "tomorrow  by  this  time 
You  must  be  gone  or  stoned  to  death  you'll  be." 
The  youth  addressed  them  in  his  own  bold  way, 
'And  how  he  spoke!     He  spoke  inspiringly, 
As  ne'er  before;  alas,  it  was  in  vain, 
For  where  the  priest  once  had  a  word  to  say 
Truth   had   no   chance,   there   truth   was  crucified. 
The  priest's  each  word  calls  forth  a  devil  to  rise, 
And  though  the  devil'  Ts  not  mightier  than  God, 
He  surely  is  more  eloquent,  he  can't 
Conquer  with   deeds  but   he   can  lead  astray. 
With   threatening   curses   they  then   left  the  youth. 

Just  for  a  moment  his  spirit  was  wrenched 
Thougths  of  despair  would  flit  within  his  brain 
As  ravens  flit  around  a  carcass  found. 
'These   are   the   people" — he   cried   in   despair, 
These  are  the  people  whom  I  had  adored, 
."or  whom  I  lived,  for  whom  I  would  have  died. 
.Jut  thus  it  was  a  thousand  years  ago. 
And   what   of  it?     A   thousand   years  from   now 
It  will   be   otherwise.     Mankind   is   young, 
With  ease  'tis  fooled.  To  ripe  manhood  when  grown 
It   shall   be   otherwise.     Because   still  young 
It  must  be  nursed  with  care.     'Twas  ever  thus: 
Since  ancient  days  the  kings  and  priests  would  strive 
In  mental   blindness   and  in  ignorance 
The  populace  to  keep;   these   demigods 
Had  but  one  aim:  to  rule!  and  well  they  knew, 
That   only  such, — the  mental  blind,— submit 
To  kind   and  priest-craft  reign."   He  pitied  them. 
"Poor   people", — mused  -he, — "but   what   do   I    care? 
I  fought  for  them  till  now,  henceforth  I'll  fight 
With  force  and  vigor  new,  they  shall  be  free!" 

The  eve  has  set,  the  night  came  in,  to  him 
The  last  night  he  would  spend  in  his  old  home, 


THE   APOSTLE  49 

He  stands  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
Looks   up   toward   the   window   where   at   times 
To  see  her  he  was  wont.       The    window    's    'bare 
No  light,  no  maiden  there,  yet  he  looks  up, 
Intently  gazing,   he   looks  like   a  ghost 
That  into  stone  had  turned.     His  deep  felt  woe 
Together  with  the   moon  spread  o'er   his  face 
A  veil  of  ghastly  white.     When  all  at  once, 
He  felt  his  hand  by  someone  grasped.     He  turned, 
And  he  beheld  her  at  his  side  for  whom 

/?  He  had  so  hopelessly  been  waiting  there. 
"For  you  I   waited  here."  then  .said  the  youth. 
"For  you  I   waited   here.     I   dared  to  hope 
Once  more  to  see  you  in  that  window  there, 
A  mute  farewell   1    sent  up   from  my  eyes, 

'•  And  then  to  go,  fore'er  to  go  away. 
Beyond  all  hope  my  fate  is  kind  to  me  ,   ^ 

My  lips  can  now  convey  my  last  farewell, 
My  hands  rest  in  your  hands.     Sweet  maid: 
Farewell!    Good-bye   you    sweetest    of   the   fair. 
In  all  the  world  you  were  the  only  one 
Who  called  me  friend,  whom  I  my  friend  could  call. 
I  have  no  keepsakes,  but  your  picture  fills 
My  heart,  as  in  some  poor  man's  hut's  bare  wall 
The  Saviour's  picture  hangs,  before  which  he 
Each   eve   in   adoration   bends  his  knee. 
But  if  the   costliest  keepsakes   filled  my  heart, 
I'd   cast   them   all   away   and   only   keep 
The  memory  of  this  blissful  parting  hour. 
Farewell!     If  ever  you  shall  hear  of  me, 
That   I   achieved    great   fame,    believe   me,   girl, 
The  merit  will  be  yours,  for  your   sake   I 
Shall  strive  great,  good  and  famous  to  become. 
So  that  you  may  never  regret  to  have 
Befriended  me;  but   rather  feel   some  pride 
To  have  enclosed  me  in  your    golden  heart. 
Farewell!     You  were  my  guardian  angel  here. 

He  started  then  to  go,  but  he  was  stopped. 
As  if  in  chains  the  maiden  holds  his  arm. 


50  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

She  tried  to   speak  but  could  not  speak  one  word. 
Until  amidst  heart-rending  sobs  she  said: 
"Farewell,  good-bye!     And  God  be  with  you,  dear. 
Farewell,  you   noblest   of  the   youth.     Farewell! 
If  I  could  only  go,  I'd  gladly  go  with  you, 
Shall  we  two  nevermore  each  other  see? 
Go!   Go!  My  star  is  fallen  from  on  high, 
Farewell,  my  love!     Your's  is  my  heart's  best  love. 
I  had  to  tell  you  this,  it  flowed  from  here, 
My  heart,   as  flows   the  Vesuv's   burning  flame. 
I  'Tis  you  I   love;     And  hear  my  solemn  vow: 
1  If   I    cannot   become   your   own    true   wife, 
1  By   Heaven  above  I   swear,   I"ll   never  wed! 
1  Here,  take  this  ring,  'tis  our  engagement  ring, 
'And   sooner   will  its   pure   gem   turn   to   dust 
Ere  faithless  I  become.     Farewell  my  friend! 
Fair  dream  of  my  poor  youthful  life,  Farewell!" 

The  richest  bliss  and  gift  of  heaven  are  his, 
He   fell  upon   his  knees   and  kissed  her  feet. 
When  on  the  morn  he  had  left  the  place, 
And  on  the  highway  trod,  a  hundred  times 
He  looked  upon  the  ring,  for  then  he  knew 
That  last  night's  sce\e  was  not  his  fever's  dream, 
Was  not  the  fancy  of  an  insane  mind. 

He  took  the  road, — himself  he  knew  not  whj-. — 
Towards  the  capital,  the  city  where 
yU  one  time  he  .had  stolen,  begged  and  worked. 
He  found  a  garret  room  which  suited  him, 
And  there  he  lived.     He  knew  not  what  to  do, 
\\';hile    pondering   o'er    what  to    undertake, 
A  knock  is  heard  upon  his  door,  it  opes, 
A  lady  veiled  comes  in, — the  veil  is  raised. 
The  youth  stands  petrified,  his  mind  stands  still, 
He   recognizes   her,  she  is   his  friend. 

"I've  followed  you!"  the  girl  then  said  to  him, 
"I've  followed  you!!  though  if  a  burden  I, 
Just  drive  me  hence.  I   shall  then  take  my  seat 


THE    APOSTLE  51 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  door  and  wait 
Untill  my  heart  shall  break.     I've  followed  you, 
Because  without  you  I  don't  want  to  live. 
I  am  now  here,  what  will- you  do  with  me?" 
The  youth  fell  on  her  breast,  and  then  they  wept 
The  while  their  hearts  o'erflowed  with  blissful  joy. 
"You  do  not  drive  me  hence?"  the  maid  then  said. 
I   can  remain  with  you?     I  can  stay  here? 
Half  of  your  woes  and  sorrows  are  now  mine 
And  all  my  happiness  henceforth  is  yours.   • 
Each   care   of  yours   is  mine,  .if  ever  I 
Complain,  then  lose  all  faith  in  me  and  know 
That  false  were  all  the  vows  of  love  I  made. 


XIV. 

And  then,  as  if  in  lawful  wedlock,  lived 

The  two.     Xo  priest  had  blessed  their  plighted  love, 

They  made  no  vows  of  fealty  and  faith, 

They  did  not  utter  speech,  deep  in  their  hearts 

These  words  of  promise  "unto  death"  remained 

Untainted,  as  they  should  fore'er  remain, 

Pure  as  the  stars,  whose  brightness  human  breath 

Can  never  reach.     The  days  passed  blissfully, 

The  months...   the  world  without  knew  naught, 

of  them, 
They  seemed  to  know  naught  of  their  world  around. 

The   youth's  spirit  howe'er  became   aroused 
And  said  to  him  with  voice  of  stern  reproach. 
"Awake,    arise!     Thou   wert   not   born    to    live 
A   selfish   life,   for  others  thou  wert   made, 
Up!    Up!    Young  man!  and  do  your  work  in  life." 
In    language    more    severe   then   spoke   to   him 
| A  voice,  the  voice  of  daily  need  and  want: 
"Up!  go  to  work,  or  soon  in  direst  need 
And  hungry  will  you  be,  now  two  of  you, 
And  soon  to  come  a  third  one  must  be  fed." 
He  went  to  work.     He  wrote;  with  heart  and  soul 


52  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

He  penned  the  dictates  of  his  brilliant  mind. 
Then  to  an  editor  he  took  his  work. 
The  editor  read  through  the  manuscript. 
And   said  to  him:     You  are  a  great  man,  Sir, 
You  are  a  genius,  but  still  a  fool. 
You're  truly  great,  your  work's  indeed  sublime, 
The  like  of  which  Rousseau  did  never  write, 
You  are,  though,  still  a  fool  if  you  could  think 
That   you   this   manuscript  would    see    in  print. 
Have  you  ne'er  heard  of  what  the  Censor  is? 
If  not,  I'll  tell  you,  list,  the  censor  is 
The  devil's  own  threshing  machine,  the  sheaves 
Of  human  brain  are  threshed  by  it.  The  grain — 
I  mean  the  truth —  is  seperated  and 
The   chaff   and   straw  are   given   back   to   print, 
And   this   is   all   the  public  is   allowed 
To    digest.     Ah!    Sir,   if   you   doubt   my   word, 
Just  let  us  try.     Yes,   I   am  willing,   Sir, 
To   bolt   one   leaden   ball  for   each   grain 
Left  in  your  sheaf  when  he  is  through  with  it. 
If  you  the  product  of  your  brain  would   save 
I  From  this  threshing  machine,  produce  no  grain, 
!  Produce   but  weed,   however   mean   and   vile 
I  Which  poisons  people's  minds.     What  do  you  care? 
I  For  stuff  of  that  kind  you  are  even  paid." 

Stunned  and  bewildered  he  went  slowly  home, 
Felt  as  if-  he  against  a  wall  had  knocked 
His    head.     Sat    down    to    write,    fully   resolved 
To  write  in  other  vein,  subdued  and  smooth 
j  And  soft  so.  that  the  censor,  when  his  hands 
1  Pass  o'er  his  woric,  should  feel  its  velvet  touch. 
*When  he  had  done  his  work,  he  found  the  same 
•More   free,   outspoken,   bolder  than  the   first. 
Against  his  judgment  and   convictious  strong, 
And  ten  and  hundred  times  he  tried  to  write, 
But  all  in  vain,  he  tore  up  what  he  wrote. 
He  found  he  could  not  force  himself  to  write 
Against  his  judgement  and  convictious   strong, 
That  if  he  wrote  what  might  go  through  the  press 


THE   APOSTLE  53 

It  would  be  thrash,  while  what  he  felt  to  be 
Work  of  real  worth,  the  censor  would  reject. 
'"Tis  awful!"  he  exclaimed,  "are  there  no  means 
To  make  myself  then  heard!     This   fire  within 
My  soul,  which  would  have  set  the  world  ablaze, 
I  must  quench  and  subdue  within  my  breast, 
That  it  devour  my  own  heart. — I   must  live! 
Shall  I   my  sacred  principles  deny, 
And  let  the  rascals   who   deceive   the  world, 
Hire  my  pen?     No!     By  the   Eternal!     No! 
Death   from  starvation  on  a  dung-hill  I 
Prefer,  and  I  much  rather  end  my  life 
As  I  began  the  same.     I'll  steal,  I'll  beg, 
Do  menial  work  ere  I  should  write  one  line 
That  does  not  spring  and  rise  from  my  soul's 

source, 

Ere  I  a  false  seal  put  upon  one  thought — 

However  insignificant,    of  mine. 

Good-bye  ye  thoughts,  ye  walled  in  prisoners, 

Let  my  brain  the  prison  and  the  coffin  be 

For  my  ideas....    No!  They  cannot  die; 

The   day  will   be  because  the   day  must  be 

When  they  come  forth,  their  prison-door  shall  ope, 

And  make  their  tour  around  the  wide-wide  world 

And  carry  light  and  warmth   everywhere 

As   do  the  rays   of  the   bright  summer  sun." 


The  youth  allowed  his  thoughts  and  his  ideas 

To   rest.     To   gain   the   needful   daily  bread 

He    copied    others'    thoughts.     What    weary    work! 

More  bitter  far  than  chopping  logs  of  wood. 

At  early  morning  he  began  his  work, 

Worked  late  into  the  eve,  and  many  times 

He   burned   the  midnight   oil,   and   frequently 

His  lamp  went  out  before  he  went  to  bed. 

And  yet,   in   spite   of  all  this   earnest  work 

His   table   often   missed   its  meagre  weight 

Of  daily  food;  upon  his  window  pane 

The  winter  often  planted  icy  flowers 


54  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  froze  the  tear  within  the  woman's  eye 
Naught   cooled  howe'er  the   ardour  of  her  love. 

Years  came,  years  passed,  his  family  had  grown. 
Now  they  were  three  and  then  the  fourth  one  came, 
And   quadrupled   was   then   the  misery, 
Within   that   narrow   garret-room,   their   home, 
The  walls  of  which  inflowing  rain  had  streaked, 
And  mildew  had  put  on  its  ornaments: 
Where  now,  upon  the  bed,  three  of  them  sleep, 
The   mother   and    the    children,   while    nearby, 
Upon  a  heap  of  straw  the  man  found  rest. 
The  rising  sun's  first  rays  fall   on  his  brow,, 
Encircling  his  head,  as  if  Almighty  God 
Had  pressed  upon  that  brow  a  loving  kiss. 


XV. 

The  family  woke  up.     The  first  to  rise 

Is  he  who  had  been  last  to  go  to  sleep. 

The   mother  rises   next,   and  then  the  boy. 

The  baby   did   not  wake,   still  in   deep   sleep — 

Upon  their   tip-toes   they   all  move   around 

Their   speech   is   whisper,   so   their   voice   break   not 

The    baby's    sleep.     Poor  father,    mother,    son, 

Why  move  on  tip-toes,  why  this  voiceless  speech? 

Tramp   heavily,  speak  loud  and   shriek  and  yell, 

Be  not  afraid,  you  will  not  wake  her  up, 

Because  the  dead  no  longer  hear  the  noise; 

The  babe  is  dead,  the  babe  has  starved  to.  death..  .. 

W'hat  can  the  parents  feel, what  do  they  feel 
When  Death, — their  offspring's  death, —  stares  in 

their  face? 

J3ut  think  of  the  parent  who  is  made  aware 
That  want  of  food,  that  hunger  killed  his  child, 
'His    innocent    and    beauteous    angel    babe? 
If  God   endowed  me  with  his   right  hand's  force 
Not  e'en  then  might  I  tell  the  agony 


THE   APOSTLE  55 

Which  by  a  thousand  claws'  most  cruel  hurts 
Made  that  poor  mother's   heart  profusely  bleed? 

Leave  her  alone,  leave  her  to  throw  herself 
Upon   the  lifeless  corpse,   to  moan,  to  weep, 
From   her   deep   sorrow's   deep   abyss   to   heaven 
To  call,  her  God  with   cruelty  to  charge, 
Prostrate  herself  and  deprecate  His  wrath, 
Leave   her  alone,    do   not   attempt   to    stop 
The  wildest  outburst  of  her  insane  grief. 

The   man    stood    speechless,    mute   his   agony 

Before  the  tiny  corpse,  or  was  he  glad 

That  she  had  ceased  to  suffer  hunger's  pangs? 

The  boy  amazed  was  staring  at  the  babe 

And  thinks  that  he  himself  will  be  as  white 

And  motionless  when  he  too  shall  be  dead 

And  he  too  not  be  hungry  any  more. 

The  hours  but  slowly  pass,  still  time  does  move 

Exhausted — or  in  faint? — the  woman  falls 

Upon  the  corpse,  her  grief  is  duller  now 

Her  soul's  upheaved  waves  sweep  no  more  the  sky 

They  have  more  calm  become  and  gently  sway 

As  waves  the  grain  o'er  which  the  zephyr  blows. 

She  takes  the  dead  child  to  her  loving  breast 

And  gently  rocks  it  while  a  lullaby 

She  chauds  withvoice  subdued.   Her  sing-song  sounds 

Like  when  in  autumn  eve  the  tree  tops  sigh: 

Sleepest  darling 

Baby  dear? 
Dreamland's    visions 

Bright    and    clear 
Do  they  fill  thy 

Blissful   rest? 
Not   yet    is   the 

Earth   thy  nest, 
Mother   holds  thee 

To   her   breast. 


56  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Sleep   beloved  one 

Baby  dear, 
Thou   hast   been   my 

Joy    and    cheer. 
Like  the  sun   rays, 

Bright  and  clear 
Made   us   happy 

All  in  here. 

From  the  dawn's  kiss 

Glows  the  sky, 
With   my  kisses 

Do   I    try 
Thy   pale   face   to 

Beautify. 
Once  again  but 

Smile,  and  I 
Will    submit    and 

Cease  to  cry. 

O'er  a  green  grave 

A  white  cross, 
There    I'll    lament 

O'er   my   loss. 
Freely  flows  there, 

Not   the    rain, 
Tears   thy   mother 

Can't  restrain. 

Weeping  willows 

Cease    to    moan, 
None    must    mourn    here, 

I   alone. 
You  may  listen 

Crown    of  trees, 
To    a    mother's 

Tearful    pleas: 
Dost  thou,   dearest 

Rest    in   peace? 


THE   APOSTLE  57 

Head  and  heart  are 

Now  at  ease? 
Is    the    earth    light 

O'er   thy   tomb. 
Soft   the   couch   in 

Earth's   dark  womb? 
Was   it  warmer 

When    thy    nest 
Was    upon   thy 

Mother's    breast? 

Sleep  well  dearest 

My    heart's    dove, 
Good    night   darling; 

God   above 
Keep   thee   safe,   and 

Golden    bright 
Let  thy  dreams  be 

Through  the  night. 


And  while  she  does  her  dead  child  put  to  sleep 
Herself,  at  last,  falls  into  slumber  deep. 
And  while  she  rests  the  husband  ponders  o'er 
The   problem   where   to   get   a   coffin's   price, 
The  funeral's   cost?  for  he  was  penniless 
What's  there  at  home  what  he  could  sell  or  pledge? 
In  vain  he  looks   around,   there's  naught  indeed 
Of  any  value  left  within  his  home. 

What  came  then  to  his  mind  that  all  at  once 
,  He   stirred,   as   if  touched   by  a  sudden   shock, 
Grew  deathly  pale.     He  saw  the  dear,  old  ring, — 
Priceless  to  him. — the  ring  once  given  to  him 
By  her, — that  time! —  He  now  must  sell  the  ring, 
That  not  all  naked  be  his  child  confined 
To  earth.     He  now  must  with  his  treasure  part, 
It  had  been   more   to  him  than  was  the  light 
Of  his  two  eyes,  he  now  must  part  from  that 
Which  he  had  kept  through  all  these  years  of  want. 


58  ALEXANDER  PETOF1 

The  thought  to  part  with  it  his  hair  turned  gray, 
In  all  the  world  howe'er  he  had  naught  else 
With  which  to  pay  to  bury  his  dead  babe. 

When  from  his  finger   he  the  ring  had   drawn, 
He  felt  as  if  his  heart  had  been  torn  out, 
The  past  and  present  had  been  cut  in  twain, 
Destroyed   the   bridge   twixt  winter  and  the   spring 
And  mashed  the  stairs  on  which  he   in  his   dreams 
From  earth  to  heaven  would  now  and  then  ascend. 
Alas!  it  must  be  done,  the  ring  must  go, 
His   child  must  have  a  decent  burial. 

t 

His   child   did  have  a   decent  burial. 
The  coffin  was  of  rosewood,  satinlined, 
A  marble  stone  was  put  over  the  grave. 
Ah,  well!  the  ring  had  brought  a  goodly  price, 
And  all  of  it  was  spent  on  the  deceased. 
The  father  could  not  think  of  it  to  spare 
One  single  cent  e'en  for  a  crust  of  bread 
Although   indeed   they  all   felt  hungers  pangs. 
.Bread  with  that  money  bought  would  kill,  he  thought, 
Would  poisonous  be;  and  he,  he  had  to  live, 
Live   long   and   work  his  mission  to  fulfill. 


XVI. 

He  knew,  he  felt:  the  thoughts  inspiring  him 
Shall   not,  will   not  within  his  brain   die   out. 
But   that  there  must,  there   will  yet   come   the   day 
When  firom  their  prison  breaking  they  go  forth 
And  conquer  all  the  world  o'er  which  they  spread. 

It  came  to  pass.     What  strenuous  work  of  years 

I  Had  not  accomplished,  no.w  by  happy  chance 
A   moment   brought    about.     He   found    somewhere, 
In    some    secluded,    subterranean    place 
A  printing  shop  where  he  could  print  his  works. 
What   did  he   say  therein?     He  told   the  world 


THE   APOSTLE  59 

That   priests   a^e   not  like  ordinary   men, 
But   devils   have   become,   that   kings   are   not 
By  grace  divine  or  some   such  nonsence  vain, 
Great   demigods,  but  are  plain,   common  men, 
That  all  men  equal  are,  all  have  the  right, 
— Kay  more, —  as  duty  to  their  Lord  God  owe 
To  be  free,   that  who  freedom  does  not  prize 
— God's   greatest   gift, — betrays   his   very    God. 

, 

His  book  was  published  and  all  o'er  the  wojrld 

With    lightning    swiftness    was    distributed 

And   eagerly  was   read.     Men,  all  athirst, 

Drank   its   invigorating   cristal   flow 

From  which  their  very  souls  grew  young  again. 

The  powers   though,   alarmed,   grew  deathly  pale 

Upon  their  furrowed  ft.-onts  vindictive  ire  's  seen, 

With   thunderings  they  shriek.     "A  traitor  he 

"Who  wrote  this  book,  religion   he  blasphemes, 

"His   majesty   the   king  he   dares  assail, 

"The    author    must    severely    punished   be." 

The   frightened   populace   repeated   it: 

Indeed,  a  traitor  he  who  wrote  this  book, 

Religion    he   blasphemes,    insults   the   king, 

"As  is  prescribed  by  law  th'e  author  must 

Severely    punished    be.     Inviolate 

"And  sacred  are  our  faith  likewise  our  king."    . 

Most  awful  was  the  punishment  he  met. 

Arrested  in  the  street,  he's  carried  off, 

"Desist!"  appealingly  he  cries,  "desigt 

"Fear    naught,    I'll   not   attempt   to   run    away, 

"I   follow  you  where'er  you  lead  me   to; 

"But  just  one  moment  wait.     That  window  yon     . 

"You  see,  the  window  of  my  home  it  is. 

"My  wife  and  child  live  thelre,  pray  take  me  there 

For  one  s'hort  minute  only,   so  that  I 

"May  say  good-bye  to  them  and  then  you  may 

"To   prison  take   me,  take   me  anywhere. 

"Let   me   embrace  them   once   again   and   then 

"I'm  yours,  for  I'd  far  rather  go  to  hell 


60  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"After  I've  said  my  last  good-bye  to  them 
"Then   go   to  heaven  without  a  parting  kiss. 
Are    you    yourselves    without    family    ties? 
"Are  you  no  husbands?     Have  no  children  you? 
"What  would  you  say  if  you  were  treated  thus? 
"In  all  the  wclrld  I  have  naught  else  but  them, 
"In  all  the  world  they  have  naught  else  but  me. 
"Let  me,  good  men,   oh,  let  me  go  to  them 
"That  once  again, — who  knows? — the  last  time,  I 
"May  hold  them  next  my  heart.     Don't  pity  me, 
"But   pity  them,  they're   surely  innocent. 
"They  're  not  to  blame,  no  malefactors  they. 
"W'hy  punish  them?   Oh!   do  not  kill  them  too. 
"Oh,  God!     If  with  my  earnest  plea  your  hearts 
"I  can  not  move,  my  flowing  tears   appeal 
"To  you  for  this  one  boon,  my  tears  which  are 
"But  drops  of  blood  which  well  from  my  poor 
"And  are  the  sweat-drops  of  a  dying  soul." 

And  weepingly  he  fell  upon  his  knees. 
And  as  in  better  days  he  had  embraced 
His   sweethart's  knees,   his  captors  knees  now  held 
Within  his   arms   and   wept.     His   captors  though 
With   brutish,  mocking  laugther  kicked  at  him, 
Bade  him  to  rise,  nay,  picked  him  up  with  force 
And   carried   him  towards  the   cart  which  stood 
Near   by   in   which   to   carry   him   to  jail. 
When  he  then  saw  that  all  his  payer's  in  vain, 
His    furious    ire    aroused,    he   rose   and    fought 
With   all   desperate   force   at  his   command 
To   shake  his  captors  off,   with   madman's   strength 
He  struggled  to  free  himself  and  shrieked  and  roared. 
But  all  in  vain,  he  was  subdued  and  bound 
And  thrown  into  the  van. — "Cursed  be  you  all," 
He   yelled, — "Curse   you,   and   yours,   ye   fiends   and 

brutes 

"In  human  shape.     You  alre  the  devil's  own 
"'Tis  not  a  human  heart  a  loathsome  toad 
"You  have.     As   great  as   is  upon  your  souls 
"The  weight  of  rascality,  as  great 


THE   APOSTLE  .         61 

"Shall  be  the  fearful  scars  upon  your  cheeks, 
^A.nd  then  the   worms   of  the   dunghill   shall 
"Upon  your  carcass  feast!     Cursed  be  your  king, 
"In   whose  name  you   drag   manly  v^'tue   down, 
"And  carry  to  the  slaughter  house.     Curse  you, 
"You   good-for-nothing   idiotic   king 
"Wko  think  yourself  a  God  to  be.     In  truth 
"You  are   the    devil,   aye,    the   prince   of  lies. 
"Who   did   entrust  the  millions  to  you? 
"Who   did   entl-ust  the  sheepfold  to  the  wolf? 
'Your  hands  are  bloodred  like  your  regal  cloak, 
'Your  face  is  pale  as  is  the  crown  you  wear, 
"Your  heart  is  black  as  is  the  mourning  which 
"Follows  your  deeds,  as  lengthened  shade  is  drawn 
"By   setting   sun.     How   long  yet  will  you   dare 
"Usurp    your    selfassumed    illegal    rights? 
"The   powe'rs   and   prerogatives   you   stole? 
"Oh!  that  it  come,  that  in  their  migjit  supreme 
f'Your   subjects   rise   in   violent   revolt 
j" Against  you,  as   the   storm-swept  ocean   waves 
"Arise,    and   when   with   hundred   thousand   men 
"To   give  them  battle  you   go  forth:  God  grant 
"It,  that  you  do  not  bravely  die  -upon 
"The  battle  field  as  would  be  fit  a  man, 
"A   craving  coward  you,  you  start  the  flight 
"Run  for  your  life,  try  to  escape  and  hide 
"Beneath  you>.'  throne  as  hides  beneath  a  couch 
'"The  dog  that  had  been  by  his  master  whipped 
"From  thence  you  should  be  dragged  and  as  you 

stand 

"Before  the  crowd  of  women  and  of  boys: 
"With  mocking  laughter  they  should  spit  at  you. 
"Who  theretofore  had  kissed  your  hand  and  feet 
Should  then  command  you  their  own  toes  to  kiss 
"And  as  you  kneel  down  their  behest  to  do 
"Let  them  then  kick  at  your  distorted  face, 
"Break  one  by  one  youlr  teeth  and  trample  out 
"Your  wretched  life.     Die  like  a  beast!     Despair! 
"As    do   despair   I    here!     Oh   wife!     Oh   child!" 


62  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

XVII. 

Had  he  been  sleeping  and  woke  up  just  now? 
Or  had  he  insane  been  and  had  he  just 
Regained  his  senses?     Had  he  all  these  months 
Been  crazed  and  wild?...    Sylvester  knew  it  not. 
He   tried  to   think  it  out  and  thought  and  thought 
What  could  have  happened  to  him  and  where  was  he? 
He  looked  around,  but  could  not  see  a  thing, 
A  darkness  most  intense  encircleth  him. 

Then  to  himself  he  said:     "It  must  be  night. 

I  was  asleep  and  must  have  had  a  dream, 

I   only  half  remember  what  I   dreamt. 

It  was  an  awful  dream,  I  will  not  tell 

My  wife  about  it,   why   disquiet  her? 

Ah!  if  the  mc^rn  would  dawn!     What  awful  night 

I   had;  the  darkest  in  my  life.     Doest  sleep 

Good  wife?  Doest  sleep  my  love?  She  heard  me  not, 

She  surely  sleeps.     Sleep  well  beloved  one... 

And  still  dawn  does  not  break.    When  will  it  come? 

This   heavy,   stifling  air  is  choking  me. 

Rise  golden  dawn  and  show  thy  radiant  face, 

Or   send  at  least  ahead  one  tiny  ray!... 

Oh!     how  my  forehead  burns,  as   if  my  head 

A  volcan  were  and  I  fear  it  must  burst." 

To  wipe  his  sweating  brow  he  raised  his  hand. 

The  rattling  clanking  sound  the  fetters  made, 

Brought  to  his  mind  the  truth.     He  well 

remembered  all. 
And  like  the  wind  sweeps  through  some  ruined 

church 
A  cold  chill  passes  through  his  shattered  frame. 

He  well  remembered  all:  how  he  was  seized 
While  in  the  street  and  carried  off  by  force, 
Was  not  allowed  to  say  a  last  good-bye 
To  wife  and  child,   was  not  allowed  to  look 
Into  their  eyes  so  sweet,  his  only  bliss, 
To  him  his  only  wealth  and  happiness. 


THE    APOSTLE  63 

And  now  he  's  here  within  the  prison  walls, 
A  subterranean  hole, — who  knows  how  deep, — 
More   deep  then  are  the  graves  whefrein  decay 
The    buried   dead   within   a    churchyard's    space. 
When  will  he  see  again  the  shining  sun? 
When   will   he   see   again   his   wife   and  child? 
It  might  be  ne'er  again.     Why  is  he  here. 
Within   this  ominous  and  cursed  place? 
Because  of  what  his   God   hath   given   him, 
He  gave   to  men,  by  telling  them  the  truth: 
There   is   one   common  good   wherein   all   men 
Must -share   alike   and   that  this   common   good 
Is   freedom! — He,   his   fellow  men   deprives 
Of   e'en    a   particle    of   freedom's   boon 
Commits  a  deadly  sin,  such  man  to  kill 
Is  right, —  nay  more, — a  duty  even  is 

"Saint  freedom  'tis  for  thee  I   suffer  here." 

Said    dolefully    the    wretched    prisoner. 

"Stood  1  alone  in  life  as  I  for  years 

Have  stood,  without  a  tie  of  loyal  love 

To  wife  and  child,   I'd  sit  upon  this  bench 

Of  stone  all  calm  and   I   would  be  as  proud 

As  the  usurping  king  is  on  his  throne. 

I'd  wear  these  prison  chains  with  as  much  pride 

As  in  the  by  gone  days  I  wore  the  ring 

My    darling    bride-to-be    had    given   me. 

But   I   have   family,  a  wife  and  child. 

What  will  become  of  them  now  I   am  gone. 

Who  will  provide  for  them  the  daily  bread 

And  loving  care  they   need?     Oh.  heairt  of  mine 

If  into  stone  you  can  not  turn,  why  not 

Be  rent  in  twain  and  break  and   end  it  all?" 

He  furiously  raved  and  raged  and  wept. 

But   the   dense   darkness   that   surrounded  him 

Remained    unmoved,    and    slowly,    by   degrees, 

He  calmer  grew,  his  worn  out  soul  succumbed 

And  he  became  as  placid  and  composed 

As  was  the  lifeless  stone  on  which  he  sat, 

And  gloomy  as  the  darkness  all  around. 


64  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

To  all   sensation   dead,   in   deepest  thought 

He  pondered  o'er  his  plight.     His  mind 

But  flitted  low  as  flits  a  winged  bird. 

"Tell  me,   my   prison,   who   to  the  coffin 

Art  twin,  who  built  thee?     Who  will  pull  thee  down? 

When  wert  thou  built?     How  long  yet  wilt  thou 

stand? 

iWho  sat  upon  this  stone  before  my  time? 
>  A  martyr  like  myself  was.  here  confined, 
A  highway  robber  or  a  murderer? 
Did  moulder  here  his  bones,  or  did  he  see 
Again  our   God-Almighty's  beauteous  world; 
Ah  me!  the  world  is  beautiful  indeed, 
The  forests  and  the  fields,  the  hills  and  vales, 
The  flowefrs  and  the   stars,  indeed  are  fair. 
Who  knows,  will  it  be  given  me  to  see 
Them  once  again,  or  see  them  after  years. 
When  e'en  their  names  shall  from  my  mind  have 

passed? 

It  may  be  that  I   shall  be  here  a  year, — 
Each   moment   seemeth  an   eternity. 
And  time  drags  slowly  as  the  mendicant 
Who  on  his  crutches   slowly  moves  about. 
One  year!     Suppose  they  keep  me  here  ten  years? 
Or  twenty  years,    or   even   longer   still? 
Come  up  to  me  all  ye   departed   souls 
Who  once   did  suffer  hefre.     Let's  talk  a  while, 
Instruct  me  how  to  pass  the  time  down  here. 
Who  knows?     I  may  be  dead  and  only  dream 
— What  awful  dream! — within  my  grave!  Who  knows 
It  might  well  be  that  I  am  still  alive, 
Was  buried  here  alive.     Oh  no!     I'm  dead, 
The  heart-beats  I  still  here  are  nothing  else 
Than  the  convulsions  of  my  dying,  soul." 

At  last  he  stopped  even  to  ruminate. 

His  heart  and  mind  insensible  had  grown. 

And  there  he  sat,  more  motionless  than  is 

A  statue  hewn  of  stone.     He  only  glared 

Into  the  night  with  which  his  prison  was  filled. 


THE    APOSTLE  65 

His  limbs  grew  numb  he  seemed  his  mind  to  lose. 

His  head  grew  weighty  and  lengthwise  he  fell 

Upon  the  stony  floor.     Was  he  asleep? 

Or  had  he  fainted?     For  a  time  he  lay 

There  motionless,  he  seemed  not  e'en  to  breathe 

When  all  at  once,  as  if  by  bullet  struck 

Or  red-hot  iron  touched,  with   sudden  jump 

He  leaped  up  and  with  such  heartrending  voice 

That  e'en  the  cold  walls  of  his  prison  moaned 

It  back,  he  cried  out:  "Stop!   Oh!   do  not  go!" 

And  longingly  he  raised  his  outstretched  arms. 

Long  stood  he  thus,  then  slowly  dropped  his  arms 
And  sank  into  his  seat,  the  teair-drops  rolled 
From  both  his  eyes  and  in  a  voice  as  though 
His  soul  were  moaning,  dolefully  he  groaned: 
"She  would  not  stop,  she's  gone,  all's  at  an  end." 

What  ailed  him?  What  was  it?  Who  would  not  stop? 

What  was  it  that  had  ended?  Did  he  dream?        .  -•> 

i^ 

I  He   did   not   dream.     That   was   not  a   mere   dream, 
•  Something  that  could  not  possibly  be  true, 
,  For  it  was  true...   As  he  was  lying  there 
A  female  form  appeared  before  him,  whom 
He   recognized  as  his  beloved  wife. 
She  bent  to  him  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 
"My  sufferings  a»re  o'er!  God  bless  you  dear!" 
And   pressed  a  loving  kiss   upon  his   brow. 
'T  was  then  he  leaped  up.     WJien  ope  were  his 

eyes, 

He  still  could  see  his  wife,  just  for  a  trice, 
And  then  she  disappeared.     His  prison  which 
Had  been  surcharged  with  light,  grew  dark  again, 
Dark  as  the  night  after  a  lightning's  flash. 

"My  sufferings  are  o'er,  God  bless  you  dear", 
Repeated  he,  the  message  he  had  healrd. 
"That's  what  she  said  to  me  in  dulcet  tones 
I'll  no  more  hear.     My  sufferings  are  o'er. 


66  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

God  bless  you  dear".  Well  then,  God  bless  you  dear! 
The  foliage  of  my  soul  you  have  been, 
Of  which  it  had  been  stripped  by  stormy  wind. 
Why  did  it  not  uproot,  destroy  me  too? 
What  earthly  use  am  1,  a  crownless  tree? 
Where  did  the  tempest's  wings  deposit  you 
To  find  you  if  indeed  it  be  my  share 
To  find  you  once  again  and  withered  though 
You  be,  i  might  exhale  my  life's  last  breath 
While  nealr  your  blest  remains.  I  care  no  more 
For  ought  in  life,  no  aim  in  life  have  1, 
\  You  made  life  worth  the  pain,  through  you,  for  you 
1 1  lived,  you  were  the  goddess  1  adored, 
j  You,  all  alone,  were  sweet  reality. 
fThe   rest   in   life?Freedom, — humanity — 
I  All   were  but  hollow  phrases,  phantom  dreams, 
JFor  which  the  fools  would  never  cease  to  fight, 
You,  all  alone,  were  sweet  reality, 
You  were  the  goddess  of  my  love  and  life, 
FoTevermore  I   have  lost  even  you. 
Did  like  a  mole  I  burrow  through  the  earth 
I'll  nevermore  find  you,  you  turned  to  dust, 
Commingling  with  the   earth  like  other   dust 
Not  e'en  discernible  whether  a  plant's 
Or  animal's  your  ashes   are.     I'd  bear 
This   most   gigantic   burden  till   my   death 
If  but  a  last  good-'bye  I  could  have  said, 
Only  one  small  word  could  have  said  to  her. 
It  could  not  be!  It  is  all  finished  now, 
God  would  not  grant  me  my  last  fervid  prayer." 
\"How  cruel  is  God.     Men  bend  their  knees  to  Him, 
'Call  Him  their  Heavenly  Father,  while  in  truth 
;A  Tyrant  He!     1  curse  Thee  God!     Up  there 
;Thou  sittest  on  Thy  throne  in  majesty, 
••Unfeeling,  as   are  tyrants  of  this   earth. 
Thou  reignest  proudly  and  each  day  which  dawns 
'Thou  paintest  new  with  rays  of  rising  sun 
And  with  the  blood  of  broken  human  hearts 
The  faded  purple   of  Thy  royal   sheen. 
Be   cursed   tyrannical   oppressor   Thou! 


THE   APOSTLE  67 

As  Thou  denied  me  I  deny  Thee  now! 

I  am  no  more  thy  slave,  take  back  the  life 

Which, — as  it  were  charity's  kind  alms, — 

Thou  gavest  me.     Give  it  to  some  one  else. 

Let  some  one  else  endure  it  if  he  can. 

I  hurl  it  back  at  thee.     Oh,  that  my  throw 

Might  break  it  like  a  piece  of  useless  clay."  v 

The  prisoner  shrieked  so  loud  this  awful  curse 

It  seemed  to  frighten  e'en  the  darkness  which 

Surrounded    him.     Insanely   furious 

He  knocked  his  head  against  the  wall.     The  wall 

Resounded  with  a  thud  as  if  it  had 

Been  wounded  far  more  than  the  bleeding  head. 

There  lies  the  prisoner  upon  the  stone. 

He  is  not  dead.     He  lives.     His  bitter  life 

Is  so  welded  to  him  as  is  inbred 

The  most  appalling  pain  to  his  poor  soul, 

And   endless   darkness  to   his  prison   cell. 


XVIII. 

Ten  years  he  had  been  now  within  the  four 
\\alis  oi  his  prison  cell.'    Out  in  the  world  e'en 
Ten  years  are  a  long  stretch  of  time.     Far  more 
Far  more,  within  that  dreadful  gruesome  place. 
His  beard  and  hair  grew  to  uncommon  length 
And  often  he  would  try  to  see  if  they 
Gray  had  become.     He  always  found  them  black, 
'1  hough-  they  were  white,  as  white  as  is  the  snow, 
The  darkness  showed  him  but  one  color:  black. 

Ten  years  were  gone.     These  ten  years  were  to  him: 
One  long,  one  endless  night.     He  always  asked 
Himself:   When  will  it  dawn?     From  time  to  time 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  there 
A  hundred  years,  yea,  e'en  a  thousand  years, 
That  long  ago  the  judgment-day  had  passed, 
The  world  destroyed,— this  prison  only  left, 


68  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

In  wthi'dh  by  chance  he  had  forgotten  been. 

All  passion  in  his  heart  had  long  since  died, 

He   nevermore   cursed    God,   ne'er   thought   of  him, 

Even  the  woe  within  his  heart  had  died. 

But  now  and  then,  when  from  his  dreams  he  rose, 

He'd   weep,   because   the   apparition   which 

He  recognized  to  be  the  spirit  of 

His   love-adored, — faithful  beyond  the  grave — 

Had  called  again  and  then  often  again. 

But  e'er  as  soon  as  from  his  dreams  he  woke, 

The   beauteous   phantom   disappeared  and   he 

Heartrendingly   would   moan   and   groan  and   weep. 

But  why, — he  asked  himself — comes  not  my  son? 

Did  I  not  have  a  son?     Could  he  not  come? 

And  to  himself  he  then  would  answer  thus: 

"My  son  is  surely  yet  alive,  but   still 

He  can  not  come,  for  those  can  only  come 

Here  who  are  dead  and  only  you  can  come, 

Beloved  angel  mine!     My  son's  alive 

And  is  to  manhood  grown.     Oh,  how  I  long 

To  know  what  has  become  of  yoii,  my  son, 

My  poor  beloved   orphan   boy.     Who   knows 

What  end  he  came  to  by  the  force  of  fate? 

He  may  a  robber  have  become  and  'neath 

The  gallows  buried  lie.     Or  followed  he 

'My  footsteps  and  like  me  a  prisoner  now, 

Right  here,  my  neighbor  he  in  near-by  cell? 

My  son!  my  son!  do  you  your  father  love? 

Do  you  remember  me  my  darling  son 

But  hark!  what's  this?    A  voice  unheard  till  then. 
The  prisoner  listens,  with  tense  nerves  he  lists, 
Dares   not   even  breathe;   what  reached  his  ears 
Unlocked  his  pent-up  soul  as  sunrays  ope 
The  budding  rose.    A  smile  showed  on  his  lips, 
The  first  smile  during  all  these  long  ten  years. 

A  bird  has  come  to  rest  upon  the  wall 
Of  his   forsaken   prison,   'neath  the  small 
Blind    window,    where   it   sang   its    doleful   lay. 


THE   APOSTLE  69 

How  sweetly  did  it  sing!     The  prisoner  said,— 

Or  did  he  only  think  it,  being  scared, 

That  with  'his  loud  speech  .he  might  chase  away 

The  welcome  visitor  whose  song  he  heard — 

"Oh,  God!  how  sweet  it  sounds!  In  all  these  years 

Never   yet   have   I    heard   the   songbird's  voice 

Ring  out  to  cheer  me  here  and  I  have  been 

Here  many  a  year.     Sing!  sing  again  sweet  bird, 

Thy   song  reminds   me   of  my   former   life. 

Reminds  me,   even  now  I   am  alive, 

Reminds  me  of  the  days  now  long  since  gone, 

The  springtide  of  my  life,  of  which  fair  spring's 

Comely  flower  is   ouV  youth's   first  love. 

Thy  song  reneweth  all  my  heart  felt  woe, 

But  sweetest  solace  does  it  also  bring, 

And  woe,  by  consolation  assuaged 

Is   sweeter  then  the   pleasures   we   enjoy. 

Sing  on,  my  little  bird!  Who  sent  thee  here, 

Who  told  thee  to  alight  upon  this  wall 

On  wlhic!h  ere  this  naught  else  but  ciirses  fell? 

But  oh,  ye  heavens,  a  presentiment 

Which    comes    to    me   and    overwhelms    my 

thoughts, 

Forbodeth    an   event    which    might   occur 
And  if  it  does,  might  kill  me  with  its  joy. 
It  tells  me  that  now  I   shall  soon  be  free, 
That  not  within-  this  pest-hole  will  I  die, 
But  die  beneath  God's  dome,  the  beauteous  sky, 
Thou  little   bird  upon  the   wall,   who   art 
An  unrestricted  wanderer  who  roams 
All  o'er  the  earth  in  God's  free  air,  thou  art 
A    messenger    anouncing    freedom's    dawn! 
Yes,  I  have  hopes,  your  coming  augurs  bliss. 
Be  strong,  poor  heart  which  sorrow  could  not  crush. 
Let  not  the  coming  joy  cause  thee  to  break. 
The  world  has  weary  grown  to  bear  the  yoke 
And  shaikes  it  off,  will  of  its  shame  be  freed, 
Will  justice  do  to  those  who  suffered  much 
For   freedom's   cause,   will  ope  the   dungeon-cells, 
And  tears  of  joy  will  greet  the  martyrs  freed. 


70 

Thou  little  bird  upon  the  wall  who  art 
An  unrestricted  wanderer  who  roams 
All  o'er  the  earth  in  God's  free  air,  thou  art 
A   messenger   anouncing   freedom's    dawn." 

A  rattling  in   the   door-lock  is   now  heard, 

The  bird  —  affright  —  takes  to  its  wings.    The  door 

Is  opened  wide,  the  jailor  entereth. 

"Go,  you  are  free",  he  to  the  prisoner  said. 

The  prisoner  shrieks  out  a  joyous  shout 

Grasps  at  his  head  as  if  to  make  sure 

That  it  burst  not  or  that  his  brain  escape. 

!  "I  have  it  yet", — he  cries  with  childish  glee, 
'    "I  have  it  yet,  my  brains,  not  insane  I! 
I   understand!     I   have  my  freedom  gained. 
The  country's  safe,  my  fatherland  is  free!" 
The  jailor  with  a  scowl  but  says  to  him: 
"What  do  you  care  about  a  fatherland, 
Thank  God  that  you  are  free  and  go  now  home." 

The  prisoner,   though,  heard  not  a  word,  his  mind. 
Had  wandered  o'er  the  distance  league  on  league 
And  sought  the  grave  where  rests  his  wife, 
"To  thee,  beloved  soul,  I   shall  go  first." 
He  said.     "To  thee  beloved  one  I  go  first, 
As  thou  hast  come  to  me.     I'll  kiss  the  earth 
Which   gave  thee   rest.     Ah  me!  how  long  if  takes 
To  break  these   chains,  the  minutes  which  it  takes 
To  file  them  off  are  harder  to  endure 
Than  have  been  all  these  years  of  suffering." 


XIX.       • 

The    mother's    nursing   milk   no   baby    takes 

More  eagerly  than  he  inhaled  the  free 

Air  which  he  won.     Each  of  his  breaths,  it  seemed, 

,   Took  from   his  weary  soul  one   painful  year. 

'   He  felt  re-born,  restored,  and  light  as  light 


THE   APOSTLE  71 

As  does  the  butterfly.     His  mind  took  wings 
And  over  nature's  verdant  fields, — his  heart's 
Sweet   recollections   of  the  past — it  flew. 
The  balmy,  pure  air  made  him  young  again, 
Built  up,  renewed  the  vigor  of  his  soul, 
His  body,  though,  remained  infirm  and  old, 
With  staff  in  hand  he  drags  his  steps  along. 
The  zephyr  gently  blows  his  flowing  hair, 
During  the  ten,  he  had  lived  five  score  years. 

He  reached  the  house  the  garret-room  of  which 
Had   been   his   home.     He   scrutinized   each   face 
Most  searchingly,  but  none   he  recognized. 
Xew  tenants  they,  had  he  forgotten  them? 
And  then  he  made  enquires  if  they  knew 
A  family  that  once,  but  years  and  years  ago, 
Had  lived  upstairs, — describing  his  own  folks. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  I   do  remember  well," 

A  poor  old  woman  said.     "I  knew  them  well, 

She  was  a  dear-good*  soul,  a  lady  fair. 

The   husband,  though,  was  but  a  godless  scamp. 

The  law  forced  him  to  pay  the  penalty. 

He  was  caught  and  then   into   prison   thrown, 

And  if  he  did  not  die,  he  still  is  there. 

The  poor  wife,  when   she  learned  of  his  arrest 

And  that  no  more  he  would  return  to  her: 

Fell  in  a  swoon  and  never  rose  again, 

She  died, — the  poor  thing, — of  a  broken   heart. 

I  never  could  make  out  how  could  she  love, — 

Herself   so   good, — a   worthless   man   like   him. 

Love  him  so  well  that  she  e'en  dyed  for  him." 

Sylvester  listened  to  the  speech  he  heard 

All  unconcerned  as  had  it  been  said 

Of  some  strange  man.     He  asked  whether  she  knew 

Where  had  been  burried  that  good  woman  who 
'Died  of  a  broken  heart,  and  what  became 
jOf  their  young   son? — "I    can   not  tell  you  that," — 
iThe  old  woman  replied,— "I  never  saw 

vHim   since  the  morning  of  the  funeral. 


'  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  funeral  itself. I   could'nt  attend, 
I  had  a  christening  on  hand  that  day." 

The  husband  to  himself  said:     "I  shall  find, 
I'm  bound  to  find  her  final  resting  place. 
From  grave  to  grave  I'll  go  and  scrutinize 
Each   stone  and  cross  until  I   come  to  hers." 
And  to  the  churchyard  he  then  slowly  went, 
And   looked  at  every  stone  and   every   cross. 
When  through,  he  did  it  all  over  again 
vAnd   still   again,  but  his  beloved  one's  grave 
He  never  found.     "Ah,  well!  Then  all  is  o'er! 
(Naught  left  of  her,  the  glorious  creature  's  gone, 
•Without  a  trace,  as  disappear  the  rays 
Of   setting   sun.     The  angry   storm   had  swept 
The  grave   away,   uprooted,   broke   the  stone 
God  be  with  her    and  all  is  over  now" 


It  hurt  the  poor  old  man,  it  hurt  him  much 
That  he  her  grave  had  "not  been  able  to  find 
To  shed  the  tears  which  still  were  left  to  him, — 
His  sufferings   had  made  him  weep  enough, — 
Above  the  earthly  dust  of  his  dear  wife. 
He  found  sweet  consolation  in  the  thought 
That  in  his  life  the  last  sorrow  this  is, 
That  he  for  evermore  is  done  and  through 
With   sorrow   and  with   woe,   that  through  this   life 
He  now  can  roam  a  shadow  without  form, 
A  human  shape  without  life-giving  soul. 
He   was   in   error  though,   this   sorrow  was 
Not  yet  the  last.     When  he  his  prison  left 
He  asked.     "My  co'untry  then  at  last  is  free?" 
To  this  enquiry  then  was  no  reply, 
He   haj  pily   believed   his   country   free. 


Ere  long,  however,  what  did  he  observe? 
He  saw  his  country  and  the  world  to  be 
More  deeply  bent  beneath  fell  slavery's  yoke 
Than  e'en  ten  years  before.     Mian's  dignity 


THE    APOSTLE  73 

Corrupted    day  by   day,  and   more   and   more 
Had  grown  the  tyrant's  all  mastering  strength. 

Had  then  been  all  in  vain  his  sufferings? 
In  vain  the  sacrifices  made  by  hearts 
Surcharged   with   thoughts   sublime?     In   vain 
Then  had  been  all  the  mighty  battles  fought? 
That  can  not  be!  An  hundred  times  No!   Xo! 
This  thought  renewed  his  strength,  to  flames  arose 
The  dying  embers  of  his  erstwhile  fire. 
The  broken  down  old  man  became  a  youth, 
Determined,  stout  of  will,  upon  his  brow 
Decision  sat,  decision  of  great  plans 
On  the  success  of  which  depends  the  fate 
Of  his  own  land,  nay  more,  of  all  the  world. 
T/he  plan  's  not  new,  already  it  has  cost 
The  lives  of  thousands,  but  once  must  succeed, 
And  why  not  he?     He  safely  hid  his  plans 
Within  the  deep  recesses  of  his  heart, 
He  never  even  slept  near  other  folk 
So  that  if  in  his  sleep  perchance  he  talked 
He  should  thereby  his  secret  not  betray, 
The  which,  if  prematurely  brought  to  light 
Endangered  its  success.     He  sought  no  aids — 
.  Not  from  ambition  that  to  him  alone 
— 'If  once  success  be  gained — the  glory  be, 
That  he  alone  the  mighty  work  shall  do, 
But  that  no  other  human  being's  life 
Endangered  be  if  failure  come  to  him. 

fin  sumptuous,  festive  garb  the  city  's  clad. 

[The  populace,  by  thousands  throngs  the  streets, 
Rolls  like  a  stream  which  overflowed  its  bed 
Through   avenues  with  flags  and  bunting  draped. 
Loud  cheers  resound,  all  seems  in  sunny  mood. 
What  is  this   day?     What  festival  is   held? 
Did    God   in    His   own   ima?e   come  to   earth, 
Did  with  His  own  hand  He  break  slavery's  chains, 
Give  back  to  man  his  long  lost  liberties, 
That   suoh   a   celebration    should   be   held? 
Oh,  no!  it  is  not  God  who  walketh  there, 


74     _  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

/ 

'Tis  but  a  man,  b.ut  one  who  thinks  himself 
More  than  a  God,  it  is  the  haughty  king! 
With  condescending  pride  he  walks  among 
The  crowd  as  does  the  mastiff  in  the  midst 
Of  little  dogs,  and  heads  and  knees  bend  low 
Where'er  he  looks  as  bends  the  storm-swept  reed, 
A  thousand  throats"  bawl  out:  "Long  )ive  the  King!" 
Who'd   dare  among  the  thousands  in  the  street 
Not  cheer  at  all,  or  cheer  for  some  one  else? 
Who'd  dare?     One  man  within  the  crowd  did  dare. 
His   thunder-voice   resounds   o'er   all   the   noise 

.,  And  yells  and  cheers  of  the  assembled  crowd. 

\  He  boldly  cries  aloud:  "Death  to  the  King!" 

\A  shot  is  heard, — the  King  lies  in  the  dust... 
Rise,  coward  King,  thou  art  not  hurt,  the  aim 
Was  bad,   the  bullet   did  not  reach  thy  heart, 
Tore  but  thy  cloak.     To  whom  thy  life  thou  sold — 
The  devil,' — he  saved  thy  life.     Rise  tyrant  King 
And  wipe  the  dust  off  thy  pale  face  which  shows 
All  plainly  wihat  a  coward  base  thou  art. 

Who   is  the  murderer?     And  where   is  he? 

He  stands  up  straight.     Oh,  no!  he  stands  no  more, 
^  With  blows  and  kicks  he  has  been  felled  to  earth, 
\  Half  dead   he  lies  and  happy  they  who  have 

The  chance  to  spit  into  his  wrinkled  face 
\And  once  again  kick  at  his  hoary  head. 

Poor,  wretched  people,  why  heap  o'er  your  head 
The  curse  of  God?     Are  you  not  cursed  enough? 
You  crucified  the  Lord,  our  Jesus  Christ 
Wasn't  that   enough?  Must  you  then  crucify 
All  saviors  who  try  to  serve  you  well? 
Poor  wretched  folks!     A  hundred  times  poor  race! 

t  Within  a  day  or  two  a  scaffold  stood 

•  Upon  the   city-square.     Condemned  to   die 

!  A  hoary  headed  man.  all  fearless  stood 

;  On  it.  near  him:  the  headsman  with  his  sword, 

— The  shining  instrument  which  deals  fell  death 

The  gray-head  looked  into  the  eyes  of  those 


THE   APOSTLE  75 

Who   came,— a  mighty  crowd,— to   see  him  die, 
Whose  eyes  with  exultation  seemed  to  burn 
One   tear-drop   of  deep  pity  glistened   in 
His  own  eye.     He  felt  sympathy  for  those 
Who  had  with  blows  and  kicks  belabored  him, 
And  now  rejoice  to  see  him  yield  his  life. 
With  awful  swish  the  sword  sweeps  through  the  air, 
The  head  rolls  to  the  ground,  Sylvester's  head! 
The  populace  bawls  loud:     "Long  live  the  King!" 

The   headsman's   men   inter   Sylvester's   corpse 
In  the  deep  grave  dug  at  the  scaffold's  foot. 

XX 

The  servile  generation  had  grown  old 
And  then  died  out. — A  new  race  had  grown  up 
Which  with  the  flush  of  shame  upon  their  face 
Spoke  of  their  sires.     They  had  resolved  to  live 
A  nobler  life.     They  did.     A  brave  resolve 
Is  all  that's  needful  and  an  iron  will. 
A  new  grown,   dauntless  generation  rose, — 
What  from   their  fathers  as  an  heirloom  came 
To  them,   their  chains  of  slavery,  they  broke, 
And  threw  upon  the  graves  of  those  who  had 
Forged  them,  that  the  rattling  of  the  chains 
May  rouse  them  up  and  e'en  in  their  graves 
tCause  them  to   shriek  with  fear.     The  victors  then 
(With  grateful  hearts  named  all  the  heroes  brave, — 
(The   great  and   saintly   men   who   theretofore 
(Had  fought  to  free  the  race  from   slavery's  bonds, 
'And  whose  reward  had  been  a  shameful  death. 
Remembered    them    and    wove    around    their    names 
Wreaths  of  the  laurel  tree,   immortalized 
Their  names  in  songs  and  gladly  would  have  borne 
Their  bones  into  the  nations  Dome  of  Fame!... 
Where  could  they  seek, — where   could  they  find 

what  long 

Had  mouldered  in  the  ditch  beneath  the  shade 
Of  gallows  and  of  scaffold  where  they  died? 


76  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 


CHILDE  JOHN. 

(JANOS   VITfiZ) 

I. 

The   summer's   sun   descends  with   burning  glow 

Upon  the   hamlet's   shepherd-lad   below. 

No  need  for  it  howe'er,  he  anyway 

Feels    warm    enough    without    the    sun's    fierce    ray. 

The  flame  of  love  glows  in  'his  youthful  soul; 
A  browsing  herd  is  under  his  control. 
His  sheep-skin  cloak  he  spread  upon  the  grass 
Reclining  on   it   he  thinks  of  his  lass. 

Around  him  waves  a  sea  of  flowers  bright, 
The  flowers   though   do   not  arrest  his  sight. 
Stone's  throw  from  him  runneth   a  babbling  brook 
To  which  with  eager  eyes  he  casts  his  look. 

He  cares  not  for  the  brooklet's  silver-sheen. 

A  fair  blonde  maid  he  on  its  shore  hath  seen, 

He  gazes  at  her  figure  full  of  grace, 

Her  flowing  locks,  round  breast  and  beauteous  face. 

The  maiden's  skirt  is  rolled  up  to  her  knee, 

— 'Washing   her   linen    sheets    she    would    be    free, — 

Her  bare  feet  were  a  most  inspiring  sight 

To   Kukoricza  John's   heartfelt   delight. 

The   shepherd   lad,   reclining  on  the  lawn, 
Who  could   he  be?     Our   Kukoricza  John! 
In  her,  who  in  the  brooklet  laves  her  sheet 
Helen,   his  fond   heart's  pearly  gem  we   greet. 


CHILDE   JOHN  77 

"Pearl  of  my  heart,  my  darling  Helen,  why" — 
John  says  to  her, — "dost  turn  away  thy  eye? 
Do  look  on  me,  beloved  one,  'neath  the  sky 
No  other  bliss  or  happiness  have  I.'' 

"Pray,  turn  to  me  thy  blue  eyes'  loving  ray, 
Just  for  a  moment,  dear,  thy  work  delay, 
Come  to  the  shore,  that  in  a  fond  embrace 
A  soulful  kiss  I  press  on  thy  sweet  face." 

"I'd  gladly  go,  thou  knowest,  John,  howe'er, 
I  am  in  such  a  haste,  I  do  not  dare... 
My  mother  is  a  stepmother    and  mean, 
She'd  scold  me  if  with  thee  I  would  be  seen". 

This   was  the  answer  fair,   blonde   Helen  gave, 
But  never  stops  her  sheets  with  zeal  to  lave. 
The   shepherd  rises   then  and  coming  near 
Inticingly   he   pleads:    "Helen,   my   dear, 

"My  turtle-dove,  come  here,  do  come  to  me. 
One  hug,  one  kiss, — that's  all, — I  want  from  thee. 
Be   not  afraid,   the   old  jade   's  far  away, 
Let  not  thy  lover  be  his  pining' s  prey." 

Thus    he   allured   her   with    his    dulcet    speech, 
Embraced  her  lovingly  when  in   his  reach; 
He  kissed  her;  once?     Oh,  no!     God  only  knows 
How  many  times  he  kissed  his  budding  rose. 


II. 

Time  swiftly  flies,  upon  the  brooklet's  face 
The    setting   sun   the   twilight's    red    displays. 
The    stepmother   at   home   is   furious, — 
"Where   is   Helen?" — her  thoughts  are   ominous. 

The  mean  old  hag  spoke  to  herself  like  this: 
"I'll  find  out  where  that  daugther  of  mine  is," 


78  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

—And  added,  in  a  no  wise  pleasant  mind: 
"Woe  her  if  idle  she  has  been  I  find!" 

Great  woe  is  thine,  Helen,  poor  orphan  maid, 
Beware!     She's  coming  up  to  thee,  the  jade, 
Her  big  mouth  opes  and  with  a  piercing  scream 
Arouseth   thee   thus   from  thy  sweet  love's   dream: 

"Thou  miserable  wretch,  vile  shameless  face 
"Is  this  the  way  thou  dost  thyself  disgrace? 
"With  godless  things  to  fool  away  the  day! 
''Did  ever  man!...  Go  home! — The  devil  may 


"Enough!   KJeep   still,   old   hag,   or  else   beware 
Before  you  raise  my  wroth,  and  if  you  dare 
Hurt  Helen,  or  e'en  with  your  speech  abuse, 
The  teeth  still  left  within  your  jaw  you'll  lose." 

His  trembling  love  defending  thus,  he  had — • 
The  gentle   shepherd   lad — grown   truly  mad. 
On   her   tormentor   casts   an   angry   glance, 
Then   to   this   threat   he   giveth   utterance: 

"If  you  want  not  that  I  burn  down  your  hut: 
Make  n'ot  heavier  this  poor  orphan's  lot. 
Her  woik  is  hard  she  is  in  constant  dread, 
And  all  she  gets  from  you  's  a  crust  of  bread." 


"Now,  Helen  dear,  go  home,  thou  hast  thy  speech 
If  she  should  maltreat  thee,  my  help  beseech! 
And  you, — old  dame — you  leave  this  girl  alone 
You  are  yourself  as  a  bad  penny  known." 

He  picketh   up   his   cloak,   by  his  wrath   stirred 
He  parts  in  haste  to  get  back  to  his  herd. 
When  lo!    He  finds  that  while  he  was  away 
Some  of  the  cows  of  his  had  gone  astray. 


CHILDE    JOHX  79 

III. 

The  sun  already  touched  the  earth  when  John 
Could  with  the  herd  he  lad  together  drawn 
Start  toward  home.     Did  wolves   or  did  a  thief 
Pillage,   while   he  away?     Great   is   his  grief. 

Whatever  caused  his  loss, — e'en  if  he  knew, 
It  would  not  help, — 'there  was  one  thing  to  do: 
To  tell  the  husbandman  the  truth;   and  so 
He    resolutely   starts   homeward   to  go. 

"Woe  be  to  thee,"  he  to  himself  doth  say, 
As  sad  at  heart  he  slowly  wends  his  way. 
"The  master  's  anyhow  a  luckless  wight, 
And  now  this  loss — but  I  will  do  what's  -right." 

With   thoughts  like   this   a-preying  in  his   mind 
He  reaches  home,  right  at  the  gate  to  find 
His   irate  host,  to  count,  as  wont,  the   drove 
Ere  John,  each  eve,  them  to  their  stable  drove. 

"Don't  count  them,  Sir,  you  will  miss  more  than  one< 
I  can  not  hide  the  truth,  the  damage  's  done," 
— Said   Kukoricza  John — "my  heart  is  sore, 
God  knows  I  wish  I   could  the  loss  restore.' 

The  owner  took  John's  language  as  a  joke, 
Gives  his  moustache  a  twist:  "Oho!  provoke 
Me  not,"  he  said  in  jesting-threat'ning  tone, 
"Thou  art  well  off,  leave  well  enough  alone." 

The  truth  howe'er  was  quick  enough  found  out. 
John's  master,  half  insane,  a  mighty  shout 
Emits.     Where  is  my  pitch-fork?"  is  his  cry, 
"I'll  run  him  through,  right  at  this  spot  he'll  die. 

"Thief!   Robber!   Gallows-bird,"  he  madly  cries, 
"The   ravens   should   scratch   out  both  of  thy  eyes. 
Did  I  keep  thee  for  this  and  fed  thee  too? 
Quick  for  my  iron  fork,  I'll  run  him  through." 


80  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"Out  of  my  sight!     Let  me  se«  thee  no  more!" 
John's  master  yells  and  curses  foul  he  swore. 
A   mighty  bar  of  iron   is   at  hand, 
With  which  he  tries  on  John  a  blow  to  land. 

Now  Kukoricza  John  was  not  afraid, 
No  coward  he,  of  sterner  stuff  was  made: 
O'er  twenty  in  a  fight   had  victor  been, 
Altough  but  twenty  winters  he  had  seen. 

Young,  strong  and  bold,  nevertheless  he  ran. 
Not  that  he  was  afraid  of  his  old  man, 
He  knew  that  he'd  done  wrong,  could  he  then  stop 
To  fight  the  man  he  wronged,  who  brought  him  up? 

He   ran  till   his   pursuer   stopped   to   run, 
Then  only  was  he  with  his  swift  flight  done, 
And  then  he  stopped,  then  staggered  right  and  left, — 
Then  ran  again  as  of  his  mind  bereft. 

IV. 

When  like  a  mirror  shone  the  brooklet's  face, — 
Lit  up  by  thousands  stars'  illuming  rays, — 
John  found   himself   at   Helen's   garden   gate, 
How    he   got    there,   not   he   could    e'en   relate. 

He  stopped.  Upon  his  reed-pipe  then  he  blew, 
The  saddest,  most  heartrending  tune  he  knew. 
The  dew  drops  on  the  blade  o'grass  and  leaf 
Were  tears  of  stars  which  felt  with  him  his  grief. 

Helen  already  slept.     In  summer  nights 

To  sleep  upon  the  front  porch  she  delights. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  familiar  tune, 

She  rose,  goes  down,  and  is  at  John's  side  soon. 

She  did  not  like  his  looks,  she  seemed  affright, 
This  is  her   faltering   speech  made  at  his   sight: 
"What   ails   thee   John,   thou   art   so  _ghastly   white 
As  is  the  moon  on  dismal  autumn  night?" 


CHILDE  JOHN  81 

"Why  should  I  not  be  pale?  beloved  one,  hear? 
Thy  sweet  face  I  no  more  shall  see,  I  fear." 
"Oh,  John,  thy  looks  have  frightened  me  enough, 
For  heaven's   sake,  talk  not  such  foolish  stuff." 

"My  heart's  fair  springtide,  we  shall  meet  no  more, 
Nor  will  my  reed  again  my  woes  outpour. 
This  is  my  last  embrace,  my  good-bye  kiss, 
Forever  I  myself  from  here  dismiss." 

The  poor,  ill  fated  lad  then  tells  her  all, 
Upon  his  weeping  sweetheart's  breast  doth  fall. 
Caresses  her,  but  turns  away  his  eyes, 
She  must  not  see  that  he  too  freely  cries. 

*  "Dear,  beauteous  Helen,  sweetest  rose,  good-bye! 
Let  now  and  then  thy  thoughts  towards  me  fly. 
If  thou  should'st  see  dry  stalks  by  stormwind  borne. 
Think  of  thy  roving  lover  from  thee  torn." 

"Dear  John,  good  bye;  go,  if  'tis  God's  decree! 

Each  step  in  life  thou  makest  He  be  with  thee! 
C  See'st  thou  a  faded  flower  thrown  away, 
(.Think  of  thy  sweetheart  left  here  to  decay." 

They  parted  as_from  tree-twigs_2arts._thejeatf, 
Their  hearts  grew  desolate  weighed  down  with  grief. 
Poor  Helen  weeps,  the  shower  from  her  eyes, 
John  with  his  flowing  shirt  sleeves  gently  dries. 

He  started,  never  looked  though  where  he  went, 
What  did  he  care?     To  be  gone  his  intent. 
The  crackling  of  the  storks,  the  shepherds'  song 
He  did  not  heed,  but  went  his  way  headlong. 

He  left  his  home  behind  him  long  ago, 
He  saw  no  more  the  herdsmen's  bonfires'  glow. 
When  once  he  stopped  and  turned  to  take  a  look, 
The  tower  viewed  him  like  a  ghastly  spook. 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

If  any  one  then  would  have  been  near-by, 
He  could  have  heard  him  heave  a  heartfelt  sigh. 
The  air  is   cleft  by  cranes  which  swiftly  fly, 
They  do  not  hear  him  though,  they  were  so  high. 

He  jogged  along  into  the  silent  night, 
The  ample  fur  coat  round  his  shoulders  quite 
Distinctly  flaps.     The   cloak  is   heavy,  though 
More  weighty  is  his  sore  heart's  awful  woe. 


V. 


When  dawn's  first  rays  had  caused  the  moon  to  flee, 
The  prairy-heath  spread  'fore  him  like  a  sea. 
From  east  to  the  horizon's  far  off  end: 
Before  him  lies   the  broad  and  level  land. 

No  bush,  no  tree,  no  blooming  flower  there, 
A  dewy  blade  o'  grass  is  even  rare. 
The  sun's  first  rays  show  at  the  right  a  mead, 
Also  a  pond,  though  o'ergrown  with  reed. 

Within  the  reed  a  long  necked  heron  tries 
To   find  its  feed  of  toadlet,  frog  and  flies. 
Above  the  centre  flits  a  fishing  bird, — 
Swift  on  its  wing, — its  cries     are  far  off  heard. 

John  jogged  along,  together  with  his  shade 
And  with  the  dartc  thoughts  which  on  his  mind 

weighed. 

The  bright  sun  o'er  the  country  sheds  its  light, 
Within  John's  heart  though  all  is  darkest  night. 

The  sun  had  reached  the  top  a-spreading  heat, 
It  then  came  to  John's  mind  'tis  time  to  eat. 
At  rroon,  the  day  before,  he'd  eaten  last; 
Fatigued  and  hungry,  thought  to  break  his  fast. 


CHILDE  JOHN  83 

All  worn  out, — his   feet   could   hardly  drag,— 
Sat  down,  the  rest  of  bacon  from  his  bag 
He  ate.     The  bright  sun  looks  at  him  from  high, 
A  mirage  views  him  with  its  fairy  eye. 

He   had   enjoyed   his   modest   feed,   then   went 
Up  to  the  pond  where  on  his  knees  he  bent, 
The  broad  rim  of  his  hat  with  water  filled, 
Which  he  then  drank,  his  burning  thirst  thus  stilled. 

The   pond's  shore  he  left  gratefully  behind, 
His  heavy  eyelids  him  of  sleep  remind, 
To   have  a  restful  sleep  in  soft  grass-bed, 
Upon  a  molehill  laid   his  weary  head. 

His  dreams  carried  him  back  from  whence  he  came, 
He  held  is  his  embrace  the  trembling  frame 
Of  sweet  Helen,  but.  when  to  kiss  her  tried, 
A  thund'rous  clap  roused  him  all  terrified. 

He  looked  around  the  field  with  startling  eyes, 
Tempestuous   clouds — he   saw — o'erlhung  the   skies, 
So  sudden   did  the   thunderstorm  g,row, 
As  his  own  life  a-sudden  had  turned  to  woe. 

The  world  was  clad  in  a  most  pitch-dark  hue, 
It  thundered  loud,  God's  arrows  lightnings  flew. 
The  channels  of  the  clouds  seemed  ope  to  be: 
The  water  of  the  pond  foamed  like  a  sea. 

John,  of  his  fur  cloak  turned  the  inside  out, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  long,  strong  and  stout. 
The  broadrim   of  his  hat  he  turned  down, 
The  storm   he  viewed  thus  with  an  icy  frown. 

As  sudden  as  the  storm  had  come  it  went, 
As  quickly  it  had  all  its  fury  spent. 
On  wings  of  wind  the  clouds  were  blown  away: 
A    beauteous    rainbow    illumines    the    day. 


84  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

John  shaketh  from  his  cloak  the  drops  of  rain, 
And  after  that  he  starts  his  walk  again. 
When  on  that  day  the  sun  lay  down  to  rest: 
John  would  not  yet  his  two  feet's  speed  arrest. 

Still  on  he  trod,  into  the  forest-heart; 
His  creaking  steps  set  birds  on  wings  to  start. 
He   hears   the   raven's   loud,   ominous   cries,... 
The  black  bird  just  had  pecked  some  dead  beasts' 

eyes. 

No  forest,  beast,  or  raven  does  he  heed: 
John   Kukoricza   never  lags   his   speed. 
The  pale  moon  spreads  her  yellow  silvery  sheen 
All  o'er  the  forest's  narrow  footpath's  green. 


VI. 

Round  midnight  must  have  been  the  time  of  day, 
W'hen  John  beheld  a  light  not  far  away; 
Approaching  closer  still,  he  found  the  light 
The  window  of  a  house  is,  lit  up  bright. 

When  John  saw  this,  he  mused  this  wise:    "I  think 

I  sorely  need  a  rest  and  food  and  drink, 

This   surely  is  a  tavern  in   this  wood 

To  rest  here  over  night  will  do  me  good." 

John  was  in  error  though,  't  was  not  an  inn. 
Twelve  robbers  had  their  headquarters  within. 
The  reason  why  the  house  was  lit  up  bright 
Was,   all  the  robbers  were  at  home  that  night. 

Night,    robbers,    sword   and   gun — consider   well — 
Are  things  which  might  of  dangers  great  foretell, — 
John's  heart  was  brave  and  stout,  he  knew  no  fear. 
He  entered,  greeting,  them  with  loud  and  clear 

Bold  voice.  "Good  evening,  Sirs,  God  bless  you  all!" 
A  migthy  tumult  rose  within  the  hall, 


CHILDE  JOHN  85 

The  twelve  men  rose,  they  reached  for  gun  and 

sword; 
Thus  spoke  to  him  the  leader  of  the  horde: 

"Thou  son  of  misery!  how  dost  ttiou  dare 
Cross   o'er  this   threshold  of  our   hidden  lair 
Hast  father,  mother  thou?     Hast  thou  a  wife? 
Thou  wilt  not  see  them  anymore  in  life." 

John's  heart,   on   hearing  this,   remained  serene, 
No   trace   of  pallor   on   his   face  was   seen. 
The  leader's  threat  had  left  him  selfposessed, 
This  is  the  answer  he  aloud  expressed:   : 

"Who  has  for  aught  in  life  something  to  fear 
"Is  wise  if  to  this  place  he  comes  not  near, 
"But  life  or  death,  to  me.  are  all  the  same, 
"I  care  naught  who  you  are,  I  boldly  came 

"And,  therefore,   if  you  can,  then  let  me  live, 
"And  for  the  rest  of  night  some  shelter  give, 
"But  if  you  think  'tis  best  that  I   should  die 
"Here!  strike  the  blow!  I  will  not  raise  a  cry." 

Said  it  all  quielly  and  then  stood  still. 
Amazement  does  the   dozen  robbers   fill. 
The  chief  spoke  up, — but  first  he  nearer  drew, — 
"List',  brother,  I've  to  say  a  thing  or  two." 

"Thou  art  as  brave  a  lad  I  ever  knew 
"God  made  thee  for  a  robber,  good  and  true, 
"Life  is  despised  by  thee,  death  fearest  not, 
"We  need  thee,  come,  and  cast  with  us  thy  lot. 

"To  steal,  to  rob.  to  kill,  that  is   our  fun, 
"Our  prey  's  the  richest  by  thieves  ever  won 
"These  barrels  are  full  of  gold,  just  look  around, 
"Come,  lad,  have  we  in  thee  a  comrade  found?" 

Ludicrous  thoughts  his  quick  brain  vivified, 
Apparently   good   natured   he   replied: 


86  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"This  day  is  of  my  woeful  life  the  best, 
"That  I  am  yours,  this  handshake  shall  attest!" 

"That  still  it  better  be" — the  leader  cried, 
"Let's  now  the  bumpers  fill,  we're  well  supplied 
"With  splendid  wines  from  cave  of  priests  we  stole, 
"Let's  see  the  bottom  of  our  flowing  bowl." 

They  did.  The  bowl  coursed  round  and  round  again. 
Wine  made  their  heads  the  churchyards  of  their 
Our  John  took  carefully  but  frugal  sips,  brain 

Though  urged  to  drinlc,  he  only  wet  his  lips. 

The  wine  brougth  sleep  to  the  twelve  robbers'  eyes, 
— The  very  thing  on  which  our  John  relies, — 
When  to  the  right  and  left  dead-drunlk  they  fell. 
John  to  himself  said  this:  "This  goeth  well. 

"Good  night  to  you,  you  sleep  here,  I   suppose, 
"Till   angel    Gabriel   hi's   trumpet   blows! 
"Revenging  hundreds  innocents  you   slew 
"I   now  shall  bring  eternal  night  to  you!" 

"Now  for  the  barrels  of  gold.     I'll  fill  my  bag, 
"Which  I  then  home,  to  thee,  sweet  Helen,  drag. 
"No  more  thy  mean  stepmother's  slave  thou'lt  be! 
"I   take  thee   for  my  wife,   'tis".  God's   decree! 

"Right  in  our  hamlet  I'll  have  built  a  house, 
'-'And  into  it  I'll  lead  thee  as  my   spouse. 
"There  we  shall  live,  life's  cares  behind  as  leave, 
"As  lived  in  Paradise  Adam  and   Eve. 

"But  oh!  my  God!  my  Lord,  What  do  I  say? 
"I  take  with  me  these  robbers'  cursed  prey? 
"Each  piece  of  gold  I  find  must  be  blood-stained, 
"WitTT  wealth  like  that  no  bliss  was  ever  gained. 

"I  shall  not  touch  this  gold;  no,  not  a  piece, 
Did  I,  my  conscience  would  have  no  peace. 


CH1LDE  JOHN  87 

"Bear  bravely,  Helen  dear,  life's  struggle  and  strife, 
"To   God   above   entrust   thy   orphaned   life. 

When  through  with  his  soliloquising  speech, 
John  came  out  with  a  burning  light,  to  each 
Four  corners  of  the  roof  applies  the  light, 
Upleaped  the  angry  flames  into  the  height. 

A  second, — and  the  roof  's  a  ball  of  fire, 
The_flame's  red  streaks  leap  high  and  higher, 
The  smoke  had  turned  to  black  the  sky's  clear  blue, 
The  bright  moon  of  before  showed  pallor's  hue. 

The  heat,  the  smoke,  the  brigiht  glow  of  the  flame 
Aroused  the  owls  and  bats  and  forth  they  came, 
Their  flight  disturbed  as  on  their  wings  to  rise: 
Sways  e'en  the  twigs  of  trees  of  larger  size. 

The   first  rays  of  the  rising  sun   threw  light 
Upon  a  smoking  pile,  a  ghastly  sight 
Behold  as  through  the  wreck'd  window  they  peep: 
Twelve  skeletons,  charred,  lie  there  in  a  heap... 


VII. 


Throughout  the  world  he  roamed,  through  many  a 

land, 

He  had  forgotten  e'en  the  robber  band, 
When,  all  at  once,  before  him  dawns  a  light, 
The   sunrays   falling  on   drawn  sabres  bright. 

A  line  of  fine  hussars  came  up  the  road,  • 
Their  swords  it  were  which  in  the  sun  thus  glowed. 
The  ihorses  which  they  mount  neigh,  rear  and  prance, 
Proud  of  their  charge  they  seem,  step  high  and 

danpe. 

When  John  beheld   them   as   they  nearer  drew, 
His  heart  beat  fast  and  faster  still,  he  knew 


88  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Their   world-wide   fame.     He   mused   and   sighed: 

"Ah,  me! 
Could  I   enlist,  how  happy  I   would  be!" 

And  when  the  soldiers  had  come  nigh,  he  heard 
The  leader  say  to  him, — how  his  heart  stirred, — 
"Look  out,  my  lad,  thou'lt  step  yet  on  thy  head, 
Why  art  thou  by  such   sorrow  overspread?" 

John  sighed,  but  said: —  encouraged  by  the  sight — 

"In  all  the  world  I   am  the  saddest  wight. 

If  you  would  let  me  be  one  of  you,  I..  . 

I'd  dare  look  in  the  midday-sun's  bright  eye." 

The  leader  said:  "Consider  well,  my  boy, 

We  do  not  go  just  now  feasts  to  enjoy. 

The  Turk  broke  o'er  the  French,  The  French, 

's  our  friend, 
That's  where  we  go!     Our  allies  to  defend! 

"Why,  Sir,  this  is  still  more  so  to  my  taste. 
Pray,  let  me  in  the  fighting,  line  be  placed; 
Do.  I  not  kill,  my  sorrow  killeth  me, 
To  war!  to  fight!  to  kill!  I  go  with  glee. 

'Tis  true,  I  rode  a  donkey  until  now,  « 

— A  stepherd  I   have  been, — but  you'll  allow, 
A  Mjagyar  I!  all  Magyars  ride  of  course, 
For  us  created  jjQjLthg_saddle  horse!" 

John  said  much  with  his  flowing  speech,  but  more 
E'en  said  his  fiery  eyes.     The  hussar  corps 
A  likink  took  to  him;  with  welcome  cheer 
Received  him  then  and  there;  a  volunteer. 

It  would  be  fun  indeed  could  it  be  told 
How  John  felt  in  his  trousers:  red  with  gold, 
And  when  his  cloak  upon  his  shoulders  fell, 
The  bright  sword  drew  with  proud  and  joyous  yell. 


CHILDE  JOHN  89 

When  John  into  the  saddle  sprang,  his  horse 
Would  kick  sky-high,  he  did'nt  mind,  of  course, 
Sat  in  the  saddle  secure  with  grace  and  ease, 
No  earthquake  could  him  from  his  seat  release. 

His   comrades   loved   his   manners   and   his   ways, 
Would   never  stop  his   strength,  and  beauty  praise; 
Where'er  they  went  and  would  in  quarters  lie 
Departing  thence,  the  girls  for  him  would  cry. 

The  truth  about  John  and  the  girls  is  this: 
He  found  not  one  of  them  as  fair  as  his 
Sweet  Helen  was,  all  o'er  the  world  he  met 
No  peer  of  her  on  whom  his  heart  is  set. 


VIII. 

The  army  marched  and  marched,  far,  very  far, 
And  reached  the  centre  of  the  land"  of  Tar, 
The   dog-faced  Tartars  lived  within  this   land, 
The  Magyars  new:  great  danger  is  at  hand. 

The  dog-facedTartar's  King  spoke  thus:  "Hussars! 
How  dare  you  come  into  this  land  of  Tars? 
To  have  come  here,  ye  madman,  was  too  rash 
Do  you  not  now,  we  feed  on  human  flesh?" 


The  Magyar's  fright  was  great.     A  hundred  they, 
Four  hundred  thousand  Tartars'  easy  prey. 
Good  fortune  's  theirs,  a  righteous  Moorish  King 
—The  Tartar's  guest, — the  needful  heep  doth  bring. 


The    moorish    King   was    quick   to   take   their   part. 
He  knew  the  Magyar  people's  noble  heart. 
He  traveled  once  in  Magyarland,  where  he 
Enjoyed  the  kindest  hospitality. 


90  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  Moorish  King  had  not  forgotten  this. 
To   save   his   friends   he   felt  his   duty  is. 
He  took  his  friend,  the  Tartar  King  aside 
To  pacify  him  with   this   speech  then  tried.  , 

"My  great,  good  friend,  don't  hurt  this  people  here. 
They  will  not  harm  your  land,  you  need  not  fear: 
I  know  them  well.     To  let  them  pass  your  land, 
As  token  of  our  friendship,  I  demand." 

"For  your  sake,  comrade,  I  shall  let  them  go," 
— The  Tartar  King  replied; — "I  shall  bestow 
My  help  on  them,  to  pass  safe  through  my  land, 
And  everywhere  receive  a  helping  hand." 

Indeed,  no  harm  had  come  to  them,  't  is  true, 
Still,  they  were  glad  when  they  had  said-  adieu 
Forever  to  the  land  where  they  could  fare 
On  naught  else  but  on  figs  and  flesh  of  bear. 


IX. 


The  hills  and  vales  of  Tartar-land, — did  they 
Look  for  the  Hussars, — found  them  far  away; 
For  they  had  reached  great  Talyanland  and  marched 
On   forest   roads   by   rosemarry-trees   arched. 

Naught  happened  there  at  all  that  needs  be  told, 
Except,   that   they   encountered  bitter   cold. 
For  there  't  is  always  winter  as  we  know, 
Our  men  marched  o'er  eternal  ice  and  snow. 


But  Magyar  blood  flowed  in  their  veins,  and  so 
However  cold,  they  bravely  onward  go. 
To  warm  themselves  a  bit,  what  did  they  do? 
Their  horses  bore  on  their  own  backs!     That's  true! 


CHILDE  JOHN  91 


And  thus  they  came  into  the  land  of  Poles, 
Then  into  one  the  Indian  controls. 
For  France  and  India  are  adjacent  lands, — 
The  dangerous  road  between  them  though  commands 

The  greatest  courage,as  you'll  see  from  this: 
The  centre  of  the  land  but  hilly  is. 
But  then  the  hills  grow  step  by  step, — so  high 
That  at  the  borders  they  reach  to  the  sky. 

Of  course,  the   army  here  perspired  much, 
The  men  took  off  their  cloaks,  neckties  and  such.. 
By  the  eternal!  Was'nt  the  burning  sun 
Away  from  them  but  just  an  hour's  run? 

They  did   not  eat  aught  else  but  chunks  of  air, 
It  was  quite  hard,  each  man  bit  off  his  share: 
How  they   obtained   their   drink  was   really  fun: 
They  wrung  a  cloudlet  and  the  trick  was  done. 

They  finally  had  reached  the  mountains'  top. 
It  was  so  hot,  that  they  were  forced  to  stop 
To  march  in  day  time,  so  they  walked  at  night, 
This   too  was   dangerous,   their  horses   might    • 

— They  feared, — e'en  stumble  o'er  the  shining  stars. 
— Stars  in  a  rider's  way,  his  progress  bars; — 
John  mused:  "Whene'er  a  star  shoots  from  the  sky, 
" — 'T  is  said — it  means  a  human  life  must  die. 

"Thy  fortune  'tis,  mean  step-mother  below 
"That   I,  which  is  your  life's  star  do  not  know. 
"For   if   I   did,  you'd  torture  her   no  more, 
I  would  kick  your  star  out  of  heaven's  door." 

Then   the   descent   began    and   soon    the   land 
Would  into  fields  of  wide  lowland  expand, 
The  heat  abates  with  each  step  they  advance, 
And  ceases  when  they  enter  into  France. 


92  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

XI. 

France   is   so  fine  a  realm,   she  justifies 

Her  name:  a  new  Canaan,  a  paradise. 

The  sweet  tooth  of  the  Turks  ached  for  the  land, 

They  reached  for  it  with  thievish,  murderous  hand. 

When  our  Magyar  Hussars  arrived,  they  found 
Them  hard  at  work — the  robbers — all  around. 
They  robbed  the  church,  the  altar  and  the  grave, 
And  stole  the  wine  from  cellar  and  from  cave. 

Found  burning  cities'  flames  light  up  the  sky 
And  countless  dead  and  wounded  meets  their  eye. 
The  King  was  driven  from  the  royal  quarter, 
And  stolen  his  beloved,  only  daughter. 

Our  men  thus  found,  just  by  a  lucky  chance, 
The   homeless,   roaming,   exiled   King  of  France. 
And  when  the  Magyar  Hussars  met  him  thus, 
They  shed  for  him  a  tear,  real  dolorous. 

The  exiled  King  thus  spoke  to  them:  "Is  not 
" — My  friends — my  share  in  life  a  cruel  lot? 
"With  Darius'  wealth  my  treasures  could  compete, 
"Extreme  want  is  now  mine  in  my  retreat." 

To  cheer  him  up,  the  leader  said  to  him: 
"Don't  worry  King  of  France,  we  are  in  trim, 
"We'll  meet  the  heathen  horde,  we'll  make  them 

dance 
"For  daring  thus  to  treat  the  King,  of  France. 

"To  night  we'll  take  a  rest,  we  need  a  rest, 
"The  road  was  long  we  feel  somewhat  depressed; 
"To-morrow  morning  when  the  sun  shall  rise, 
"We'll  reconquer  for  you  your  Paradise." 

"But  how  about  my  child,  my  daughter  fair," — 
Laments  the  King, — "where  is  she!  Where? 


CHILDE  JOHN  93 

"A   Turk   carried   her   off;   upon   my  life! 
"Who  brings  her  back  receives  her  as  his  wife." 

By  this   fine   speech   the   Hussars  were  inspired, 
The  heart  of  each  with  golden  hope,  was  fired. 
One  great  resolve  causeth  each  heart  to  stir: 
I'll  bring  her  back  or  else  I'll  die  for  her! 

John  Kukoricza  was  the  only  one 

Whose  mind, — from  what  he  heard, — no  fancies 

spun. 

John's  mind  was  wandering,  far,  far  away... 
He   thought  of  sweet   Helen,  his   darling  fay. 


XII. 

As  is  his  wont,  next  morn  the  sun  arose 
But  ne'er  yet  did  he  witness  scenes  like  those 
He  saw  that  morn  the  moment  he  appeared, 
Just  as  the  bars  of  th'  earth's  horizon  cleared. 

The  army  bugle   sounds,  the  trumpets  blare, 
The  boys  are  up  and  for  the   day  prepare. 
Their  swords  are  bright  and  sharp,  and  then 

of  course 
Well  gromed  and  saddled  is  each  Hussar's  horse. 

With  might  and  main  the  French  King  would  insist, 
That  he  too  would  them  in  their  fight  assist: 
The  leader  though,  a  thoughtful  man  and  wise, 
Thought  best  to  give  the   King  this  sound   advice: 

"Not  so,  my  gracious  King,  you  stay  behind, 
Age  has  your  strength  and  vigor  undermined. 
I  know,  that  still  to  you  your  valor  's  left, 
But  what's  the  use  if  of  your  strength  bereft? 

First  trust  to  God,  then  us,  that's  all,  I  pray, 
We  pledge  ourselves!    ere   over  is   the   day 


94  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

We'll  rout  your  foes  and  from  your  lands  have 

thrown, 
And  you'll  resume  your  ancient  royal  throne." 

The  Hussars  then  into  the  saddles  spring, 

Go  forth  the  Turk  to  find;  they  shout  and  sing. 

A  herald  send  ahead  to  tell  the  Turk: 

To  be  prepared  for  this  day's  heavy  work. 

The  herald  returns.     The  trumpets  sound  a  blast 
One  mighty  cheer!  The  fight  is  on  at  last! 
The   clash   of  steel,  the   Magyar's   lusty  yell, 
Their   warcry  is   which   does   of  valor  tell. 

They  drive  their  spurs  into  their  horses  flanks, 
The  eartlh  vibrates  as  onward  rush  the  ranks. 
Or  was  it,  that  the  earth's  own  heart  beats  loud, 
t  deathly  blows  dealt  by  that  crowd? 


Seven   horses'   tails  adorn  the   Turkish   chief. 
His  pouch   is  big  enough  —  is  your  belief  — 
To  hold  a  barrel  of  wine,  his  nose  is  red, 
Looks   like   a   ripe   cucumber^  —  people   said. 

The   awful  bellied   Turkish   Chief  gave   then 
The   sign   for  the   assembling  of  his  men. 
The  Turkish  force  lined  up  as  if  at  drill, 
When  our  Hussars  rushed  at  them  with  a  will. 

That  rush  howe'er  had  not  been  children's  play 
Terrific  was  the  turmoil  of  the  fray. 
The   fighting  Turks   perspired   their  very   blood, 
The  green  field  soon  was  soaked  by  red  sea's  flood. 

O,  holy  smoke!     The  day  was  hot!  O  my! 
The  Turks'  dead  bodies  lay  a  mountain  high!! 
The  mighty  bellied  chief  though  still  alive, 
Tried  John  to  reach  with  his  swords  vicious  drive.  " 

Our  John  did  not  regard  this  as  a  joke; 
Parried  the  thrust  and  to  the  Chief  thus  spoke: 


CHILDE  JOHN  95 

"My  friend!  thou  art  too  big  for  one,  let's  see, 
Can  not  this  blow  of  mjne  make  two  of  thee?" 

He  did  what  he  had  said  that  he  would  do, 

And  actually  cut  the  chief  in  two — 

The  two  halves  fell  from  the  perspiring  horse 

To  right  and  left  neath  John's  blows  mighty  force. 

Their  chief's  fall  made  the  coward  Turks  affright. 
Presto!  they  turn  around  and  took  to  flight. 
They  ran,  and  even  now  they  still  would  run 
Had  our  pursuing  men  the  race  not  won. 

Our  men  came  up  to  them;  a  carnage  spreads, 
Dandelion^  in-hlnnm  like  drop  their  heads. 
One  only  Turk  escapes,  that  is  he  tries, 
Our  Kokoricza  John  after  him  flies. 

It  was  the  Pasha's  son  who  sought  by  flight 
To  save  himself;  there  's  something  white 
Seen  in  his  lap.     It  was  the  French  Princess — 
Unconscious,  in  a  faint,  and  motionless. 

It  was  a  while  till  John  had  him  outrun. 
"Stop,  heathen" — yelled  to  him, — "or  just  in  fun 
I  cut  on  that  mean  frame  of  yours  a  hole 
Through  which  to  hell  can  pass  your  worthless  soul". 

The  pasha's  son  howe'er  would  not  have  stopped, 
If  not,  at  last,  his   race-horse  had  not  dropped. 
The  horse  dropped  dead.  The   Pasha's  son  began 
To  plead  for  mercy,  thus  his  prayer  ran: 

"Have  mercy  on  me,  Sir!  brave  noble  Sir! 

If  nothing  else,  my  youth  should  your  heart  stir 

To  generous  sympathy!     O,  let  me  live! 

All  that  I  have,  for  it,  I  freely  give!" 

"Keep  what  you  have,  your  worthless  life  keep  too, 
I   am  too  good  to  kill  a  scamp  like  you. 


96  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Be  off!  and  tell  at  home  what  was  the  fate 

Of  the  mean  robber  horde  found  in  this  state." 

He  then  alights,  comes  to  the  princess  nigh 
Looks  into  her  most  beauteous  lustrous  eye 
Which,  coming  to  herself,  she  oped  amazed, 
To  Join  she  then  a  greeting  like  this  phrased: 

"Dear   saviour,   I   ask  not  who  thou  art, 
I    simply   say:    I    thank  thee   from   my   heart, 
My  gratittude  is  thine  through  all  my  life, 
And  dost  thou  care,  I  will  become  thy  wife." 

In  John's  veins  hot  red  blood,  no  water  flowed. 
His  heart  beat  fast  and  loud  with  passion  glowed, 
Yet,  manfully  his  feelings  he  subdued, 
His  vows  to  fair  Helen  all  other  loves  exclude. 

Most   tenderly   he   to    the   princess    says: 

"To  thy  good  Dad,  sweet  one,  let's  wend  our  ways, 

Before  him  we  will  talk  this  matter  o'er 

And  gently  he  the  princess  homeward  bore. 


XIII. 

John  Kukoricza  and  the  royal  maid 
Came  to  the  battlefield  in  the  evening,  shade. 
The    last    rays    of   the    setting    sun — aghast — 
With  bloodshot  eyes  looked  on  what  here  had 

passed: 

Saw  nothing  else  but  one  great  field  of  death 
And  flocks  of  ravens  it  encountereth. 
What  it  beheld  gave  not  much  of  delight, 
It  dropped  into  the  sea  to  shun  the  sigiht 

Nigh  to  that  field  there  was  a  good  sized  lake 
With  water  christal  pure.     The  Hussars  take 


CHILDE   JOHN  97 

Themselves  to  it  to  lave  therein  and  red 

The  water  's  from  the  blood  the  Turks  have  shed. 

The  Hussars,  when  all  spick  and  spanx  each  man, 
To  his  palace   escort  the  French   King  then. 
The  royal  home  was  not   too   far  away 
With  ease  they  reach  it  ere  the  close  of  day. 

Just  as  the  army  reached  the  royal  fort, 
John   Kukoricza  too   arrived  at  court. 
The   beauteous  princess  who  walked  at  his  right 
Looked  like  nigh     to  a  cloud  a  rainbow  bright. 

"When  the  old  King  saw  her  he  loved  best, 
Wth   joy   atrembling  fell   upon   her   breast, 
He  shovered  kisses  on  her  rosey  face 
And   said, — still  holding  her  in   his   embrace: 

"My  happiness   is   now   complete,  and  now 
Let  some   one   call   my  good  old  cook,   I  vow 
You  all  must  hungry  be;   now  let  us   dine,  ' 

You,   heroes  of  the   day,   are  guests   of  mine." 

"My  King!"a  voice  is  heard — "here  is  the  cook! 
You  need  not  wait;   I   the  precaution  took, 
All's   ready  and   in   the   adjoining  hall 
A   truly   royal   feast   awaits    you   all!'' 

The   voice   of  the   cook  was  pleasant  to  hear: 
Like  music  to  the  Magyar  Hussar's  ear. 
They   did   not  wait   to  be   pressed  very  long, 
And   soon  around  the  laden  tables  throng. 

As   merciless  as  with  the  Turks  they  were 
They  with  the  dishes  dealt  which  they  found  there. 
No  wonder,  they  had  grown  hungry  indeed: 
All  day  at  work  on  their  heroic  deed. 

* 

Around  and  'round  had  gone  the  well  filled  bowl 
The  King  arose  and  from  his  lips  then  roll 


98  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

These  words:  "Ye  heroes  brave,  draw  near   1   pray 
Because  of  great  import  is  what   I   say." 

The    Magyar    Hussars    with    attention    list, 
None  would  a  word  of  the  King's  speech  have 

missed. 

Who  first  pours  down  a  drink,  his  throat  then  clears. 
This  is  the  speech   which   then  the  company  hears: 

"First  tell  me  what's  thy  name,  young  heroe  brave. 
\\Tho  my  beloved  daugther's  life  didst  save?" 
"John    Kukoricza  is   my   honest   name,    • 
'Tis   rustic,   true,    I   bear   it   with   no   shame:" 

This  was  John   Kukoricza's  prompt  reply. 
Still  prompter  these  words  from  the  King's  lips  fly: 
"I  now  rechristen  thee!     Henceforth  thy  name 
As  Childe  John  shall  be  known,  I  now  acclaim!" 

"Childe  John,  thou  saved  my  daughter's  life  to  day 
Thy  bravery  deserves  the  richest  pay. 
Make  her  thy  wife,  when  as  my  son  art  known: 
1  in  thy  favor  shall  resign  my  throne. 

"Since  I   am  King,  many  a  year  has  flown 
And  as  you  all  can  see,  I've  hoary  grown. 
The  royal  cares  weigh   heavy  on  my  head, 
He  shall  be  King  who  doth  my  daugther  wed." 

''I  place  upon  thy  brow  my  royal  crown, 
I  only  ask  that  thou,  when  I  step  down 
Assign  to  me  right  here  a  room  where  I 
Might  live  in  peace  near  thee,  until  I   die." 

This  was  the  speech  the  Magyar  Hussars  heard, 
The  heart  of  all  was  with  amazement  stirred. 
The  words  our  John  most  forcibly  impress, 
He  tries  his   heartfelt   thanks  thus   to  express: 


CHILDE   JOHX  99 

"I   thank  you,   Sir!     I   do  not  merit  though 
The    kindliness    which    on    me   you   bestow. 
Though   to   your  goodness   I'm   most    sensitive, 
1    must   refuse   the   rich   reward   you   give." 

"In   a   long   story    I    would   have   to   tell 
The  reasons  which  my  "I  can  not"  compel. 
The   telling   of   the    story    would    intrude 
On  your  patience  and   I   hate  to  be  rude." 

"Speak  up!   tell  us   thy  reasons,   one   by  one, 
We'll    gladly   listen   to   thy    speech,   my   son." 
The    King    to    John    encouragingly    said. 
Who  then  before  them  his  life's  story  spread. 


XIV. 

"Well,   how  shall   I   begin?     And.  first  of  all 
Why    people    me    "John    Kukoricza"    call? 
A  foundling  I, — wag  in  a  cornfield  found 
And    Kukoricza    caH myself   was    boundT" 

A   wealthy   farmer's   kind,   good-hearted   wife 
— 'T  was  often  told  me  in  my  later  life — 
On  passing  through  the  field  heard  baby-cries, 
And  in  a  nearby  furrow  she  espies 

Poor  me,  wrapped  in  a  rag  and  crying  loud, 
She  took  me  up  and  to  herself  she  vowed: 
"Poor  waif,  I   have  no  children  of  my  own, 
As   my  adopted   son   thou   shaft  be  known." 

The  good  old  woman  had  a  husband  though, 
Who  was  not  pleased  and  his  dislike  would  show, 
Whene'er  he  saw  me  in  her  care,  he'd  swear 
Blasphemous  cuss  words  which  the  household  scare. 

She  tried  it  hard  his  wrath  to  pacify: 
"Stop   being  angry.   Dad,   tell   me:   could   I 


100  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Leave  him  abandoned  in  that  field  to  die? 
Would  mercy  have  on  me  our  Lord  on  High? 

And  then,  dear  Dad,  he  will' be  of  good  use 
Around  the  farm.     Cows,  oxen,  sheep  and  yews 
Need  overseers,  when  grown  up  he'll  repay 
With  good  work  what  we  do  for  him  to  day." 

Somehow   she   wins  him  o'er  and  by   degrees 
He  yields,  but  altough   I   tried  hard  to  please, 
He  never  liked  me.     If  in  ought  I  failed 
With  whip  and  cane  I  promptly  was  assailed. 

Midst  working  hard  and  thrashings  had,  I  grew 
Of  joys  and  pleasures  I   but  little  knew. 
The  only  bliss  which  for  my  life's  ills  paid: 
Was  in  our  village  lived  a  sweet,  blonde  maid. 

The  maiden's  mother  soon  stepped  in  her  grave, 
Her  fath.er  took  a  second  wife,  and  gave 
A  stepmother  to  her,  and  then  he  died. 
To  that  stepmother  thus  her  life  was  tied. 

That  maid  'has  been  my  joy  amidst  my  woes, 
UpQIl  _mv_t.ho.rny  _1iff>    the   only  jQgP_; 
r~Toved  her,  by  her  sight  I  was  enthralled, 
The  orphans  of  the  village  we  were  called. 

E'en  as  a  boy,  could  I  to  her  be  nigih, 
I  would  not  have  preferred  a  piece  of  pie. 
The  Sundays  were  my  only  days  of  joys, 
I  could  tlhen  play  with  her  amidst  the  boys. 

When  I  had  grown  a  good  sized  lad  to  be 
And  felt  to  have  a  heart  which  warmeth  me, 
And  I  could  kiss  her:  Well;  for  me,  the  world 
Could  crash  and  into  nothingness  be  hurled. 

Her  wicked  stepmother  oft  punished  her, 
—May   God  ne'er  pardon  her, — I  tell  you  Sir, 


CHILDE  JOHN  101 

I  often  had  to  come  to  her  defence, 

My  threats  alone  checked  her  brute  violence. 

From  bad  to  worse  too  went  my  own  affairs, 
My  dear  old  benefactress  died.     Death  spares 
Not  e'en  the  best;  she  found  me  and  to  me 
A  mother  good  and  true  had  tried  to  be. 

Hard  is  my  heart,  in  all  my  life  I  ne'er 
Shed  many  tears,  but  at  her  death,  despair 
Seized    me,    my    feelings    I    could    not    restrain, 
The  tears  I  wept  were  like  a  shower  of  rain. 

My  sweet   Helen,   my  blonde-haired   darling  too 
With  sorrow  genuine  shed  not  a  few 
Most  heartfelt  tears.     The  dear  departed  soul 
Had  been  most  kind  to  her,  did  oft  console 

Her  in  her  misery,  would  often  say: 
"Just  wait!  I'll  make  you  each  other's  one  day, 
You  shall  be  man  and  wife  and  I  declare 
Our  village  ne'er  will  see  a  finer  pair.'' 

And   sorely  we  the-  happy  days  await. 
She  would  have  brought  about  our  married  state, 
(The  dear  old  soul  e'er  kept  her  given  word,) 
Ah  me!  she  died,  and  now  is  sepulchred. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  when  she  died, 
We  two  were  forced  our  hopes  to  cast  aside. 
Still  while  our  hopeless  cause  we  would  deplore: 
We   loved   each  otiher   more   than   e'er   before. 

But   God   Almighty  willed   it  otherwise 
Our  only  bliss — to  meet — He  e'en  denies! 
Some  of  my  flock  I  once  let  go  astray, 
My  master  thereupon  drove  me  away. 

To  my  beloved  Helen  with  tearful  eye 

And  throbbing  heart  I  said  my  last  good-bye. 


102  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I  wandered  through  the  world  without  an  aim, 
Until  at  last     a  soldier  I  became. 

I  never  told  Helen,  that  she  remain 

Mly  own  sweetheart  until  we  meet  again. 

I  never  told  her  1  shall  faithful  be, 

No  pledge  was  needful  for  our  loyalty. 

Give  up  all  thought  of  me  thou  fair  princess, 
Because  if  sweet  Helen  I  can't  possess: 
This  heart  of  mine  on  no  girl  will  be  set 
Should  even  death  to  call  for  me  forget." 


XV. 

This  is  the  story  which  our  brave  John  told, 
His   hearer's   hearts   it  could  not  have  left  cold. 
The  princess'  face  is  all  suffused  with  tears, 
From  pity  and  regret  at  what  she  hears. 

T(he  king  then  says  to  him:  Dear  boy,  I  see, 
Thou  can'st  not  marry  her,  thou  art  not  free; 
I  want  to  pay  though,  my  gratitude's  debt. 
With  a  refusal  I  must  not  be  met. 

The  king  then  opes  his  treasury's  big  door, 
And  for  a  servant  calls.  With  precious  ore 
The  biggest  bag — as  much  as  it  can  hold — 
Is  filled.  John  ne'er  in  his  life  saw  so  much  gold. 

"Well,  Jahn."the  king  then  said, "thou  saved  her  life, 
But  inasmuch  thou  can'st  make  her  thy  wife: 
This  bag  of  gold   shall  pay  then  what  I   owe, 
Good  luck  to  thee  and  thy  bride  it  bestow!" 

"I  would  detain  thee,  but  I  know  'tis  hard, 
Thy  prompt  return  to  thy  love  to  retard. 
Thy  comrades  must  remain,  thou  go,  my  boy! 
I  want  them  first  some  feasts  I'll  give  enjoy." 


CHILDE  JOHN  103 

The  king  had  guessed  aright  our  brave  John's  mind: 
To  start  at  once  for  Helen's  home  he  pined. 
He  bid  tender  good-ibyes  to  all  around, 
And  in  a  boat  he'll  soon  be  homeward  bound. 

The  king,,  his  friends,  all  took  him  to  the  sea, 
He  heard  all  kinds  "good-bye!"  "Good  luck  to  thee!" 
Until  the  boat  in  distant  fog  was  lost 
Loud  cheered  for  him  the  hussars  and  their  host. 


XVI. 

The  boat  on  which  he  had  embarked  its  sails 

To  the  propitious  wind  set  which  prevails. 

The  boat  rolls  fast  enough,  but  faster  still 

The  flights  of  thought  are  which  his  mind  then  fill. 

These  are  the  thoughts  which  now  his  brain  control: 

"A,h,  dear  Helen,  sweet  angel  of  my  soul, 

Hast   a'  presentiment,    does   thou    expect 

That  homeward  's  bound  thy  rich  bridegroom-elect? 

"Yes,  I  am  homewards  bound,  so  that  at  last 
We  are  made  one.     After  our  woeful  past 
A  loving  pair  will  be,  our  ills  allayed. 
And  rich,  not  need  our  fellowlbeings'  aid. 

My  patron,  true,  he  did  not  treat  me  well; 
But  no  thoughts  of  revenge  in  my  heart  dwell, 
To  him  is  due  my  present  happiness, 
In  fact,  he  some  rewards  deserves,  I  guess! 

Such  is  the  thought  which  his  mind  agitates 
The  while  the  boat  its  speed  accelerates, 
But   Hungary  was  still  quite  far,  for  she 
And  France  divided  are  by  land  and  sea. 

One  eve,  upon  the  dock  ihe  took  a  walk. 
He  heard  the  captain  to  the  boatswain  talk: 


104  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"Look  at  that  setting  sun,  how  red  the  sky, 
We'll  have  a  storm,  those  colors  signify." 

John  heard  the  speech  but  did  not  seem  to  care. 
A  flock  of  storks  he  saw  high  in  the  air. 
It  was  in'  autumn  days, — they  migrate,— and 
These  birds  then  surely  come  from  his  own  land. 

With  gentlest  longing  he  looked  at  the  birds. 
As  if  they  would  good  news  bring  him  in  words. 
Good  news  from  her,  his  sweet  Helen,  and  then 
Good  news  from  home,  he  shall  see  soon  again. 


XVII. 


Just  as  the  sunset  of  the  eve  before 

Had  indicated  it,  next  morn'  a  roar 

Was  heard,  it  was  the   storm   swept  ocean's  waves 

Whipped  by  the  tempest  which  with  fury  raves. 

As  usual  when  such  awful  storms  prevail, 
Great  is  the  fright  of  those  then  under  sail, 
In  vain   their   efforts   are   their  ship  to   save, 
No  help!  their  fate  't  seems  is  a  watery  grave. 

Black,  heavy  clouds  roll  o'er  the  darkened  sky, 
A  thunderstorm  breaks  forth  and  from  the  high 
Shoot. fiery  sparks:  the  lightnings  awful  flash 
One  hits  the  boat,  which  breaks  up  with  a  crash. 

Dead  corpses  and  the  debris  of  the  boat 
Uipon  the  ocean's  waves  are  seen  to  float. 
But  what  has  been  the  fate  of  John?     Did  he 
Too,  find  his  grave  within  the  angry  sea? 

He  also  was  to  his  death  mighty  nigh, 
To  save  him,  help  came  to  him  from  the  sky,- 
And  rescued  him  in  a  most  wondrous  way. 
So  that  he  did  not  drown  that  awful  day. 


CHILDE  JOHN  105 

A  rising  wave  had  caught  him  and  it  bore 
Him  high  and  nig'h  to  where  the  thick  clouds  soar 
I  here,  with  a  jump  he  on  one  of  them  lands 
And  holds  on  to  that  cloud  with  both  his  hands. 

And  he  held  on  and  did  not  let  it  go. 

He  saw  it  drift  towards  the  shore,  and  so 

He  watched,  when  near  to  land,  then  in  a  whiff, 

He  jumped  upon  the  summit  of  a  cliff. 

He  firstly  prayed  to  God,  his  thanks  he  gave 

For  letting  him  escape  a  watery  grave. 

That  he  >his  treasure  lost  he  did  not  care. 

His  life  was  spared,  the  gold  with  ease  he'll  spare. 

And  then  upon  that  cliff  he  looked  around, 
Naught  else  except  a  griffith  bird-nest  found. 
The  bird  just  then  its  brood  fed,  he  saw  plain, 
And  lightning  like  a  thought  flashed  through  his 

brain. 

Most  cautiously  and  unseen,  and  not  heard, 
He  drew  near  and  then  jumped  upon  the  bird. 
He  boldly  drove  his  spurs  into  her  sides, 
As  swiftly  through  the  air  he  on  her  rides. 

The  bird  tried  hard  and  tried  with  might  and  main 
To  throw  him  down  and  thus  her  freedom  gain. 
But  John  sat  there  as  if  held  by  some  screw, 
His  hands  holding  her  neck,  and  on  they  flew! 

And  on  they  flew!  God  know.s  o'er  what  strange 

lands. 

One  day,  just  as  the  .sun  his  first  rays  sends 
To  earth,  he  saw  just  what  was  his  desire: 
It  -illumined  his  own  hamlet's  church  spire. 

1 

God's  bliss  was  his  when  he  that  church  espied. 
To  stop  his  tears  of  joy  he  vainly  tried. 
Just  then  the  bird,  to  John's  greatest  delight 
Descended   for   a  rest  from   her   great   flight. 


106  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Upon  a  hill-top  he  got  off  from  her, 

The  bird  could  hardly  breathe,  could  hardly  stir. 

He  left  her  there  in  her  exhausted  state, 

And  to  his  home,  lost  in  deep  thought,  went  straight. 

"I  bring  no  wealth  and  poor  as  I  did  start 
I   bring  to  thee  my  faithful,  , loyal  heart; 
But  this  suffices,  sweet  Helen,  I  trow 
Thou'lt  welcome  me  lovingly  anyhow." 

With  thoughts  like  these  he  comes  to  his  home  riear 
Loud  cries  and  wagon  rattling  strikes  his  ear, 
The  clang  and  bang  and  noise  is  general: 
The  people  hold  their  vintage-festival. 

He  looked  not  at  who  to  the  vineyards  went, 
He  passed  to  all  of  them  indifferent. 
And  through  the  village  he  just  walked  to  where    • 
He  knew  had  lived  Helen,  his  sweetheart  fair. 

Upon  the  porch,   he  felt  his  hands  to   shake, 
He    hardly   dared  a   decent  breath  to   take. 
He  plucks  up   courage,  entering,  he   sees 
All  strangers   where  he   thought   his   Helen   is. 

John  told  her  who  he  is.     She  breaks  in  though: 
The  while  his   hand  again  the  latch-string  sought. 
A  buxom  woman,   with  kind  sympathy 
Asks  him:  "Good  man.  whom  do  you  wish  to  see?'' 

John  told  her  who  he  is.     She  breaks  in  though! 
'"O,  bless  my  heart!  the  sun  had  tanned  you  so 
"I  did  not  know  you  first.     Come  in!     Come  in! 
"I   am  surprised!   Let's  talk!     But  where  begin?" 

"Come  in!   God  bless  you  John!  You've  changed 

indeed'' 

— Into   the    sitting  room    she   does   him   lead, 
And  when   he  in   her  cosy  armchair   sat. 
She  said:  "Xow,  let  us  have  a  friendly  chat." 


CHILDE  JOHN  107 

"Have  you  forgotten  me?  O,  what  a  shame! 

I   am   the  neighbor's  little   girl   who   came 

To  see   Helen  so  oft;   do  you  know  how"  ...... 

"The  first  thing  tell  me,  where  is   Helen  now" 

John  breaks  into  her  speech.     The  woman's  eyes 
Are  clouded  by  the  tears  which  in  them  rise, 
"Where  is  Helen?  Oh,  Dear!"  —  she  slowly  said: 
"Poor   Uncle   John,   our  sweet    Helen  is 


'T  was  well  he  did  not  stand,  but  sat  secure, 
The   dreadful   news   it  would   have  felled   him   sure. 
He  would  not  do  else  but  grasp  at  his  heart. 
As  if  to  crush  the  pain  which  made  it  smart. 

He  sat   awhile  mute,   stunned,   lifeless  it  seemed 
And   then   he   said,  —  he   spoke  as  one  who   dreamed: 
"Tell   me  the   truth,   she   is  to   some   one  wed. 
Let  her  be  whoso's  wife,  but  oh!  not  dead!" 

"I    could   at  least   once  more  see   her!    If  so, 
Less   painiful    then   to   bear   my  awful   woe. 
The    tears    a-flowing   from    the    woman's    eyes 
Howe'er   could   not    the    dreadful    truth    disgiiise. 


XVIII. 

John's  head  bends  to  the  table  from  the  blow, 
The  fountain   spring  of  his  tears  freely  flow, 
What  he  then  said, — his  voice  broken  by  woe — 
Sounds  as  spoke  he  to  himself  slow  and  low. 

"Why  did   I   not  fall   midst  the  battle's   strife? 
Wihy  to  the  sea  I   did  not  yield  my  life? 
Why  was   I   born  at   all?     That  cruel   fate, 
With   thunderous  blows   shall   make   it   desolate?' 

Slow,  by  degrees  his  grief  grows  less   severe. 
— As  had. he   fallen  asleep  it  would  appear — 


108  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"How  did  my  sweetheart  die?  What  ailed  my_rose?" 
He  gently  asked,  looked  up  and  listened  close" 

To  the  young  woman's  tale.     "List!  No  disease 
Killed   her,    but   her  stepmother's   cruelties. 
The  old  witch  though,  paid   for  her  meanness,   she 
Died   as   a   beggar   in   great   misery. 

Your    sweet   Helen   constantly   called   for  you. 
"My  dear  John"  was  the  last  breath  which  she  ,drew 
"My  darling  John,  't  is  you  alone  i  love, 
We  shall  united  be  in  heaven  above." 

Then  to  her  endless  sleep  she  closed  her  eyes, 
Not  far  from  here  the  graveyard  where  she  lies. 
All   the  village   to  her  interment  went, 
And  at  her  grave  tears  of  deep  sorrow  spent." 


The  woman  then  escorted  him  to  where 
His  sweet  Helen  had  been  laid  by,  and  there 
She  left  him  with  his  grief.     Heartbroken  he 
Before  that  holy  grave  fell  on  'his  knee.  , 

All  mute,  his  thoughts  roamed  o'er  the  beauteous 

days 

When  his  were  still  the  glowing,  ardent  rays 
Of  Helen's  eyes,  the  smile,  the  heart  of  her, 
Who  now  is  bedded  in  that  sepulchre. 

The  setting  sun  paints  the  horizon  red, 
The  pale  moon   rises  in  the   sky  instead. 
And  through  the  autumn  mist  a  sad  look  gave 
On  John,  who  reeling  left  his  sweetheart's  grave. 

But  he  returned.  Above  jhe  grave  there  grew 
A  tiny  rosebush  on  wihich  still  a  few 
Sweet  roses  he  had  seen.     He  plucked  one  rose, 
And  said  to  himself,  when  at  last  he  goes: 


CHILDE  JOHN  109 

"Sweet   flowerlet  wlho  grew  out   from  her  dust, 
We  two  shall   faithful  comrades  be,  I  trust. 
While  o'er  the  world  we  roam, — You  and  my  grief — 
Until  my  longed  for  death  brings   me   relief." 


XIX. 

Childe  John  had  two  companions  on  the  road: 
One   was   his   grief — his   poor  heart's   heavy  load. — 
The  other  one  's  tihe  good  old  sword  he  bore, 
Rust  covers  it,  the  stains  of  Turkish  gore. 

O'er  untrod  paths  he  wandered  with  the  twain, 
The   moon   changed  oft  and   changed   and   changed 

again, 

The  wintry  earth  fair  springtime's  garb  assumed, 
He  soliloquized  thus, — by  grief  consumed: 

"Tell  me,  o,  grief,  thou  everlasting  woe: 
Willt  thou  to  torment  me  e'er  weary  grow? 
If  thou  can'st  kill  me,  then  go,  tantalize 
Some  other  soul  which  rather  sighs  then  dies. 

I  want  to  die,  if  thou  bringest  no  death, 

I'll   see  to  it  my  life  encountereth 

Real   danger!     Come  adventure!      Come  real   strife, 

I   gladly  yield  to  you  my  orphaned  life." 

And  saying  this  he  casts  his  woes  away, 
Though,  here  and  there,  they  still  on  his  mind  prey, 
— He  had  hardened  his  heart, — but  still,  a  tear 
They  often  caused  in  his  eyes  to  appear. 

And   then, — his  tears   would   even   no  more  flow 
His   dreary  life  's  a  heavy  burden  though, 
He  carries  it  with  him  into  a  wood 
Where  in  the  road  a  heavy  cart-load  stood. 


110  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

With   earthenware  was   filled  the  heavy  truck, 
Which  to  the  linch  pin  in  the  mire  got  stuck. 
The   potter   whipped    the    horses:    "Git    up!    go!" 
He  yelled  a-whipping  them,  't  was  no"  use  though. 

"God  bless  you,  Sir,  good  day!"  John  to  him  said. 
The  potter  looks  at  him,  from-  wroth  all  red, 
And  angrily  responds:  "The  devil,   Sir, 
Is  master  here,  my  horses  will  not  stir." 

"We  are  not  in  good  humor  I  can  see!" 
— "How   can   a   fellow    in   good   humor   be? 
Since  morning  I   my  horses  urge  to  move, 
Xo   use,   they   stick   as   if   glued   to   this   groove." 

"I'll  help  thee  soon   enougih,  but  tell  me  please: 
Where  leads  the  road,  one  to  the  right  here  sees?" 
John  asked  and  showed  a  road  which  crossed 

the  wood, 
A  few  feet  to  the  right  from  where  they  stood, 

"Tlhat  road  there?  Oh!  Thou  leave  that  road  alone, 
No  man  wiho  ever  entered  it  it  was  known 
To  have   returned,   and   more   I   shall   not  tell, 
ItJ_eads  to  where   a  race  of  giants   dwell." 

John    said:   "Leave  that   to   me;   now  let  us   see 
How  can  this  truck  of  thine  I  move  for  thee?" 
With  that   he   caught  the   poleshaft  and  one!   two! 
With  ease,  tihe  truck  to  dry,  high  ground  then  drew. 

The   potter  looked  amazed  and   gasped  and   stared. 
To  witness  strength  like  that  had  him  all  scared. 
Regaining  calm,  his  thanks  he  wished  to  say. 
But  John  had  struck  that  road,  was  far  away. 

ToJin  walked  and  walked  and  ere  long  he  beheld 
The   country's   outskirts  where  the   giants   dwelled. 
A  s \vifitly  running  brook  's  the  border  line, 
— 'T  was  big  e'en  for  a  river,   I   opine. 


CHILDE  JOHN  111 

A    giant   field-guard    stood    watching   the   brook. 
When   John   attempted   in   his   eyes   to   look 
He  had  to  raise  his  head  as  would  he  try 
To  see  the  spire  of  a  church,  way  up  high. 

When  he,   the  giant  guard,   saw  John  come  near, 
With    thundrous   voice, — the   bellow   of  steer — 
He   yelled:   "1    see   a   man   crawls   in   that  grass, 
My  soles  just  itch   and   if  he  tries   to  pass 

I'll   step   on   him";   and   bringing  down   his   foot 
To  crush  our  Juhn,  John  took  his  sword  and  put 
It   up   so,   that   the   giant   stepped   on   it 
And  pierced  his  foot  and  fell  across  the  pit. 

"He   fell  just  as  I  wanted  him  to  fall" 
John,   in   his   mind,   said   to   himself;   "the   tall 
Man's   body   serves   me   as   a   bridge"  and   o'er 
The  body  he  crossed  to  the  other  shore. 

He   was   across   before   the   giant   stirred, 
Or  ere  a  word  or  moan  of  his  was  heard, 
Then   with   his   sword   he   strikes   a  mighty  blow, 
Off  goes  the  head   of  the  much   dreaded  foe. 

The  field  guard  never  rose  and  nevermore 
Stood  -at   his   post   upon    that   streamlet's   shore. 
An   eclipse   of  the   sun  came  to  'his  eyes. 
The  light  to  see  he  nevermore  shall  rise. 

The    streamlet's   water   flows    and   ceaseless   flows, 
But   of.  the   giant's  blood   the   color   shows. 
And  John?  Did  fortune  come  to  him  or  woe? 
Wuthin   a  minute   or  two  we  shall  know. 


Jolin    marched    ahead    into    tihe    forest's    heart. 
The   sights  he   met   of   which   no   counterpart 
He  e'er  throughout  the  wide,  wide  world  had  faced, 
Made   him    indeed    to   look   at   things   amazed. 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

There  was — for  instance — here  and  there   a  tree 
So  high,  the  crown  thereof  John  coujd  not  see, 
With  leaves  so  big,  that  one  was  big  enough 
To  furnish  for  a  grown  man's  cloak  the  stuff. 

And  the  mosquitoes  grew  here  to  a  size, 
As  if  winged  oxen  flitted  'neath  the  skies, 
John  had  enough  to  do  and  without  rest 
He  minced  the  beasts  with  wihich  that  wood 

was   blessed. 

And  then  the  crows!     Oh,  my!     Were  they  not  big! 
He    saw    one    sitting    on    a    far-off    twig, — 
At  least  two  miles  away  as  John  allowed, — 
And  yet,  that  crow  looked   like   a  big  black  cloud. 

He   sauntered  thus  a-wondering,  when  lo! 
A  something  makes  a  deep  darkness  to  grow. 
This  something  was  a  mighty  big,  black  fort, 
The  giant  king's  own  favorite  resort. 

I'll   not   exaggerate,   the   doors  were  great, 
As   big  as, — well — I   can  not   even   state, 
The   doors  must  have  been   big,— you'll  guess 

with    ease, — 
A  giant  king  can  not  through  small  doors  ^squeeze 

Himself.  John  was  amazed.  He  said:  I  see 
The   outside   here   is  grand,   what  then   must  be 
The  inside,  which  to  view  now  is  my  plan." 
Not  thinking  of  the   dangers  which  he  ran 

He  oped  the  door.     The  king  and  his — God  knows 
How   many   sons — just   dined.     Do   you   suppose 
You  know  what  was  their  meal?  You'll  never  guess. 
Some  mighty  chunks  of  rocks  had  been  their  mess. 

When    to    the    dining   party   John    came    near, 
He  thought:  "I   do  not  think  I  shall  dine  here". 
The  giant  king — as  if  his  thoughts  had  read — 
Goodnaturedly?    Maliciously?   though    said: 


CHILDE  JOHN  113 


"As  long  as  you  are  here,  come  then  and  eat 
These   rocks   here   are   a   good-enough   square  treat. 
If  you  refuse   of  our  meal  to  partake 
Of   you   yourself    our    desert-dish   will   make. 

John  did  not  know  if  what  the  king  here  spoke 
Was  meant  in  earnest  or  was  but  a  joke 
He   stepped   up  and  then  promptly   made   reply: 
"1    never  ate   such   meal,   1   can't   deny, 

But   you   having,  invited   me,   I'll  try 

To  be  like  one  of  you  and  gratify 

My  hunger  with  the  rocks.     Now  if  you  please 

Break  off  that  rock  for  me  a  goodly  piece." 

The  king  broke  off  a  piece.  Five  pounds  it  weighed 
At  least,  and  gave  to  John.  "Be  not  afraid" 
He  said,  "Of  this   small  doughnut  take  a  bite 
Next  course  's  a  dumpling, — if  your  teeth  are  right'*. 

'"Tis  I   who'll  make  you  bite!     To  bite  the  dust  I 
You'll  nevermore  on  man  stone-dinners  thrust!" 
With  that  John  raised  tihe  stone  and  at  the  king 
He  let  it  fly,  while  loud  his  voice  doth  ring. 

The  aim  was  good,  the  giant  king  is  slain, 
To  right  and  left  is  spattering  his  brain. 
John   laughs   aloud:   "You   will    not   entertain 
Your  visitors  at  stone  dinners  again." 

The  giants  were  heartbroken  at  the  sight 
Of  their  king's    death   and   in  their  sorry  plight 
Began   to   weep, — mid    sobs   their   loss   bewail, 
Each  tear-drop  of  theirs  would  have  filled  a  pail. 

The  oldest  then  addresesd  our  Childe  John  thus: 
Our   Lord-King!   We   implore  you   pardon  us, 
Our  loyal  serfdom  we   are  offering, 
But  spare  our  lives  and  we  make  you  our  King!" 


114  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

"We  all  assent  to  what  our  brother  said, 
We  are  your  vassals,  you  are  our  chosen  head. 
Oh!  do  not  punish  us,  we'll  faithful  be!" 
Such    was   the   frightened   giants'   piteous   plea. 

Said  John:  'Tis  well!  Henceforth  1  am  your  king, 
To  one  condition   I   however  bring 
Your  close  attention.     List!     I   can't  remain 
Here  with  you,  I  leave  one  of  you  to  reign 

Here  in  my  place,  I  don't  care  who  it  is, 
But  let  distinctly  understood  be  this: 
If  I  your  services   shall  ever  want 
You  must  all  ready  be,  I  count  upon  "t." 

The  oldest  giant  said  then  to  the  king: 
"We  pledge  our   fealty!   This  little  thing 
Here  take,  a  fife  it  is,  its  voice  will  call 
Most  promptly  to  your  aid  us   giants   all." 

John  put  the  fife  into  his  bag,  not  e'en 
A-thimking  of  the  triumph  which  had  been 
His  share.     Amidst  "God  bless  you"s  and 

"good  byes" 
He  wanders  from  the  land  of  his  allies." 


XXI. 

He  does  not  know  how  long  he  walked  ahead 
But  he  does  know  the  longer  he  had  sped 
His  way,  the  darker  it  grew  all  around, 
Until  he  could  not  see  at  all,  he  found. 

"Did  night  set  in?  Did  I  my  eyesight  lose? 
W'hat  can  it  be?"  John  with  himself  would  muse, 
It  was  not  night,  he  did  not  lose  his  sight, 
But  he  had  reached  the  land  whidh  knew  no  light. 


CHILDE  JOHN  115 

The  land  of  darkness,  where  no  sun,  no  star 
Shines  in  the  sky.   Howe'er  this   does  not  bar 
John's  progress.     Carefully  he  step  by  step 
Goes  forward.     Now  and  then  a  whir  and  flap 

He  hears  o'erhead,  such  as  by  birdflight  made. 
No  cleaving  wings  the  cause.  That  land  of  shade 
Had  been  the  witches'  home  since  God  knows  when! 
On  broomsticks  riding  they  come  to  their  den. 

The  witches  were  to  hold  a  parliament, 
At   midnight  falleth  due  the  great  event. 
The  dark  land's  capital  contains  their  lair, 
Where  they  assemble   now  from  everywhere. 

A  deep  cave  is  the  witches'  meeting  place. 
Within  the  cave  a  big  fire  was  ablaze. 
The  opening  of  a  door  betrayed  the  light, 
To  go  towards   it  John  thought  is  but  right. 

Most  carefully,  on  tiptoes  he  drew  nigh, 
Peeped  through  a  keyhole  and  tried  to  espy 
What's  going  on  within  that  cave.     He   saw 
Things  which  a  less  brave  man  would  fill  with  awe. 

Of  mean  old  witcihes  a  great  number's  there. 
A  curious  concoction  they  prepare: 
A-boiling  frogs,  mice,   rats  and  human  bone, 
Snakes,  tales  of  cats,  grass  'neath  the  gallows  grown. 

But  who  could  tell  it  all  what  John  had  seen? 
It  dawned  at  once  on  him:  this  devilish  scene 
Must  end.     While  in  his  mind  the  means  he  sought 
To  do  it  with,  there  came  to  him  a  thought. 

He  tried  to  take  out  from  his  bag  the  reed, 
With   w'hich  the  giants  to  call  he  does  now  need. 
By  chance  he  knocked  his  hands  against  a  thing, — 
What  could  it  be?  he  was  considering. 


116  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

He  found  it  was  a  pile  of  'brooms  on  which 
Ha'd  come  a-riding  through  the  air  each  witch. 
He  grabbed  the  brooms  and  hid  them  far  away,— 
A  witch  without  her  broom  is  lost  for  aye. 

Then  to  the  cave  came  back  and  blew  the  reed. 
The  call  his  giant  vassals  promptly  heed. 
"Thank  you  my  lads!  Now  break  into  this  hole, 
Kill  all  you  find  in  there,  save  not  a  soul!" 

There  was  a  hoydido  within  that  cave, 

The  witches  shriek  and  tried  themselves  to  save. 

They   seek  their  brooms, — by  flight  to  reach   the 

air- 
Without   their   brooms    they  knew   death   is   their 

share. 

The  grants  did  as  they  were  bid,  each  man 
Got  hold  of  one  witch  as  for  life  she  ran, 
With  wrothful  ire  her  to  the  ground  does  throw, 
Her  corpse  spreads  out  as  spreads  a  baker's  dough. 

A  thing  remarkable  occured.     Whene'er 
A  witch  was  killed,  the  darkness  of  the  air 
Would  yield  to  light  and  with  each  deathly  blow 
The  day  would  bright  and  always  brighter  grow. 

The  air  with  almost  noonday's  light  was  filled, 
The  very  last  witch  still  was  to  be  killed, — 
Our  John  in  her  that  witch  encountereth, 
The  stepmother  who  drove  'his  love  to  death. 

"Tis   I"— cried   John — "through    whom    her    mean 

life  ends!" 

And  boldly  takes  her  from  a  giants  hands. 
She  slips  however  from  his  hold  and  lo! 
She  runs  away;  and  though  by  no  means  slow, 

Her  fight  is  vain.  "Swift  as  the  wind" — John  cries — 
"Run  after  her  and  see  that  she  too  dies." 


CHILDE  JOHN  117 

His  word  is  law,  she  soon  's  caught  by  her  hair, 
With  mighty  force  is  thrown  high  into  air. 

And  thus  the  old  hag's  dead  body  was  found 
Near  John's  old  home  where  it  fell  to  the  ground. 
As  all  men  hated  her  without  restraint 
Not  e'en  the  crows  would  croak  for  her  a  plaint. 

The  land  of  darkness  changed  to  one  of  light, 

Bright   sunshine   followed   everlasting  night. 

A  bonfire  to  be  lit  was  caused  by  John 

And   all   the  witches   brooms   were   burned   thereon. 

Then   to   his   giant  friends   he   bids   good-bye, 
Appeals   to  them   his   hopes   to  justify; 
They  promise  him  his  orders  to  obey, 
And  he  and  they  then  went  upon  their  way. 


XXII. 

John  roamed  about,  here,  there  and  everywhere, 
He  felt  relieved   e'en  of  his  woe  and  care. 
Did  he  look  at  the  rose  pinned  to  his  breast 
It  did  'him  not  with  painful  thoughts  molest. 

He  bore  that  rose,  he  bore  it  near  his  heart. 
— 'Plucked  from  fair  Helen's  grave,  it  was  a  part 
Of  her  sweet  self, — to  look  upon  that  rose, 
Brought  to  his  mind  sublimely  sweet  repose. 

He    strolled   and    roamed.  The   sun   which   had 

shone  brig-lit, 
Was  way  down  in  the  West,  a  beauteous  sight 

Of  scarlet   twilight  illumined  the   sky. 

The   pale   moon's  yellow  tinge  appears  on  high. 

He   strolled  and   roamed, — the   moon  too   had 

declined. — 
At  dead  of  night,  exhausted,  he  reclined 


118  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

His  'head  upon  a  mound,  refreshing  rest 

To  find  in  good  night's  sleep  his  only  quest. 

He  fell  asleep  upon  a  grassy  heap, 
Not  knowing   even,   that  where  he   does   sleep 
A  graveyard  is,  an  old  abandoned  yard, 
The    graves    of    which    showed    plain    their 

struggling   hard 

With  father  time!  At  ghastly  midnight's  call, 
From  open  graves — the  mounds  are  yawning  all, — 
Pale  ghosts,  clad  in  white  sheets  leap  forth.  The 

Earth, 
It  seems,  gave  to  these  apparitions  birth. 

To  dance,  to  sing  the  crowd  of  ghosts  began. 
The  earth  is  tremlbling  'neath  their  feet;  that  can 
However  not  disturb  John  in  his  sleep, 
In   peaceful   dreams   he   rests   upon   that   heap. 

A  passing  ghost  espies  him  lying  there. 
"A  man!"  "A  man  alive!"  yell  fills  the  air. 
"Catch  him!"  "Carry  him  off!"  "How  does  he  dare 
To  enter  our  own  sacred  c'hurchyard  square!" 

The  ghosts  drew  near,  encircle  him,  when  lo! 
A  .call  retounls!  A  cock  was  heard  to  crow. 
That    sound   gives   notice   to   the    ghosts,  we   know, 
That  back,  into  their  graves,  they  swift  must  go. 

John  also  woke  up  from  the  rooster's  call. 
He  rose,   chilled  to  the  bones;  above  the  tall 
Grass  of  the  graveyard  blew  a  biting,  breeze, 
He's  off;  a  brisk  walk  shall  his  chillness  ease. 

XXIII. 

John   walked   along   a  mountain's   highest    peak, 
The  first  rays  of  the  sun  just  touch  his  cheek. 
The  beauteous  sight  caused  him  delight  most  keen, 
He  stopped  to  view  this  truly  pompous  scene. 


CHILDE  JOHN  119 

The   morning  star  was  just  about  to  fade, 
Its  soft  rays  no  more  any  light  conveyed, 
It, died  away  like  an  escaping  sigh 
The  moment  when  the  sun  rose  in  the  sky, 

Rose  in  the  sky  ablaze  with  golden  hues 
And  gently  the  smooth  ocean  billows  views, 
Which  billows,  so  it  seemed,  were  still  asleep 
While  into  infinite  space  rolls  their  sweep. 

The  sea  was  calm,  .but  on  its  surface  sport 
Some  tiny  golden  fish  of  divers  sort. 
And  when  the  sunrays  touch  their  scales,  it  seems 
That  rarest   diamonds   spend  their  lustrous  gleams, 

A  fisher's  hut  stood  on  the  ocean  shore, 
The   fisherman   was   old,   four   score   or   more. 
The  man  was  just  about  to  cast  his  net 
When  John  addresses  him:  "Old  man!  My  debt 

Of  gratitude  to  you  would  boundless  be, 
If  you  would  kindly  row  me  'cross  the  sea. 
I'd  gladly  pay  you,   Sir,  but   I   am  poor, 
I   can  you  but  of  heartfelt  thanks  assure." 

"My  son,  e'en  were  you  rich,  you  could  not  pay," 
— .The  old  man  said  in  kindly,   gentle  way, — 
"Whate'er  I   need  in  life:  this  mighty  sea, 
My  fishing  net,  will  e'er  provide  for  me. 

But  tell  me,  my  dear  boy,  what  brings  you  here? 

This  is  the  sea  of  seas; — to  make  it  clear: 

It  has  no  other  shore,  you  therefore  see 

No  wealth  could  make  me  row  across  the  sea." 

"The  sea  of  seas"  cried  John,  "then  all  the  more 
Desirous  am   to   reach   the   other   shore. 
I'll  get  across!   But  how?  Oh,  well!   I  know! 
Into   my  famous   reed  I'll  have  to  blow." 


120  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

A  shrill  loud  call  he  gives  upon  the  reed. 
One  of  the  giant  lads  gives  promptly  heed. 
"Can  you  wade  o'er  this   sea?  and  if  you  can 
Then  wade  across   with   me   right  now,  my  man!' 

''Can  I  wade  o'er?" — The  giant  laughs  in  glee, 

"This  is  no  sea,  this  is  a  pond  for  me. 

Sit  on  my  shoulder,  to  my  hair  hold  on, 

I'll    safely   wade   across    with   you,    King   John!" 


XXIV. 


The  giant   carried  John   with   might}'  strides, 
With  each  step  over  many  miles  he  rides. 
He  carried  him  three  weeks  with  "awful  speed, 
The  bither  shore  to  reach  though  not  succeed. 

One  day,  John  in  the  mist  of  far  away 
Perceives   a   something:   "There   is  land!"   with   gay 
Good  'humor  cries.  "We  are  there  in  short  while." 
The    giant    answers    though    "  'T    is    but   an   isle." 

"An   isle?"   asks   John,    "what   isle?   some   details 

give." 

"It  is  the   isle  whereon  the  fairies   live, 
Fair    Fairyland!    Beyond    it   is   the   end 
Of  all  the  world  and  boundless  naughts  extend."  .  • 

"Wilt  then,  my  faithful  vassal,  take  me  there? 
I  am  eager  to  see  that  land  so  fair." 
"I   can   do   that,"   his   giant   guide's    reply 
"Your  life   though   is  in  danger   if  you  try 

To    enter    Fairyland.     Terrific   things 
The   entrance   guard    and    every   step   brings..." 
"Just  take  me   there,   never  you  mind  my  lot. 
We'll   see  if   I   can   enter  there  or  not." 


CHILDE  JOHN  121 

Having  thus   told  the   giant  to  obey, 
His  guide  submits,,  has  nothing  more  to  say. 
He  bore  him  there  and  put  him  on  the  coast, 
Then  starts   for  home  and  soon  to   sight   is  lost. 


XXV. 


The  Fay's  first  door  was  guarded  by  the  strength 
Of  three  wild  beasts,  with  claws  of  half  yard  length. 
With  some  exertion,  true,  but  John  soon  had 
The  three  great  beasts  before  him  lying  dead. 

"For  one  day's  work  this  is  enough,"  John  thought. 
Sat  down  upon  a  bench   and  some   rest   sought. 
"To  night  I   take   the  rest  I  feel  I   need, 
To  morrow  to  the  next  door  I   proceed." 

He   did  as  he  had  thought  that  he  would  do. 
Next  day  he  to  the  next  door  nearer  drew. 
The  work  which  here  awaited  him  's  more  hard: 
Three  fullgrown,  fierce  lions  made  here  the  guard. 

He  rolled  his  sleeve  up,  drew  his  good  old  steel, 
And  soon   he  made  the  three  wild  lions  feel 
His   wondrous   strength;   the   fight  was   fierce, 

when  o'er, 
The  three  wild  beasts  lay  dead  before  that  door. 

His   conquest  thrilled  with  eagerness  his  breast. 
Unlike   of  yesterday,  he  sought   no  rest, 
But  wiping  off  the  sweat  which  from  him  pours 
He  steps  up  to  the  third  one  of  the  doors. 

Oh  Lord!  Forsake  me  not!  The  guard  to  fight 
—It  makes  one's  blood  congeal,  the  awful  sight; — 
Here,    is    a    dragon-serpent    with    a   jaw 
So  big,  that  six  live  oxen  it  could  gnaw. 


122  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

John  was   not   only  brave,   but   we   s'hall   find, 
That  he  had  brains,  had  a  resourceful  mind. 
He   saw,    his   sword  is   here   of   no   avail, 
He  sought  a  mode  the  monster  to  assail. 

The  monster  opened  its  jaw  to  pounce  upon, 
To  tear  to  pieces  and  to   swallow  John. 
What  did  he  do?  He's  bound  that  beast  to  kill. 
Into  its  throat  he  jumipeth  with  a  will. 

When  once  within  the  beast,  he  drew  his  knife, 
And  stabs  the  monster's  heart,  that  kills   its  life. 
The  beast  howls  out  a  groan,  a  moaning  breath — 
And  then  lies  still  when  overcome  by  death. 

It  took  our  John  additional   hard  work 
To  bore  a  hole  through  from  within.     His  dirk 
Was   strong   and   sharp,   he   crawleth   out   soon  and 
Lo  and  behold!  He  enters  Fairyland! 


XXVI. 

In  fairyland  the  winter  is  not  known. 
They  live   in   everlasting  springtide's   zone; 
No  sunrise  and  no  sunset  has  the  day 
Eternal  dawn's  soft  scarlet  hues  at  play. 

The   fays    and   fairies    in    enduring   jog 
Live  lives  which  ills  or  death  can  not  destroy. 
They  need  no  food,  theirs  is  a  ceaseless  bliss 
They  only  feed  on  love's  inspiring  kiss. 

The  grief  here  never  weeps,  it  might  be  though 
That  joy  makes  now  and  then  a  tear  to  flow; 
And  if  such  joyful  tear  drops  to  the  earth 
It  gives  down  there  to  a  bright  diamond  birth. 

Blonde  fairy  maids  a  single  yellow  hair 

Of  theirs  draw  right  across  the   earth,  and  there 


CHILDE  JOHN  123 

These  hairs  become  veins  of  that  precious  gold 
Which  greedy  men  as  sources  of  joy  hold. 

The  fairy  children   weave  from   beams   of  eyes 
Of  fairy   maids  the   rainbows  for  the  skies. 
When  of  sufficient  length,  then  from  their  home 
Are  taken  to  adorn  fair  heaven's  dome. 

The  fairies  have  a  couch  of  rose  and  vine, 
Inebriate   with  joy   thereon   recline. 
The   perfumed   zephyrs  which   soothingly   blow, 
Sweet  slumibers  bring  to  fairy  fay  and  beau. 

The    fairest   scene  which   mortal    ever  dreams, 
Approaches  not  the  splendor  which  here  gleams. 
When  man  the  first  time  kisses  maiden  sweet: 
Then  in  his  dream  he  might  like  radiance  greet. 


XXVII. 

When   Childe   John   entered   into   fairyland. 
Amazed  'he  looked   on   things   sublimely  grand. 
The  roseate  hues  almost  blind   his   eyes, 
He   hardly  dares   to  view  this  paradise. 

The  fairies  are  not  scared,  they  do  not  shun 
Him,  but  with  childish  glee  they  play  and  run 
Around;   with   gentle   speech   and  pleasant   smile 
They  lead  him  to  the  centre  of  their  isle. 

When  John  saw  how  here  all  with   rapture  beam, 
He  woke  up   as  had   he  been  in  a  dream. 
Into  his   heart   came  a  sense   of   despair: 
There  came  into  his  mind  his  Helen  fair 

"Here  in  this  land. — of  love  sublime  the  home, — 
I  all  alone,  alone  through  life  must  roam? 
Wihere'er  I  look  is  cheer  and  glee  and  mirth, 
Is  there  for  me  no  happiness  on  earth?" 


124  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

In  fairyland's  midst   stood  a  pretty  lake, 
John  does  himself  to  its  fair  shore  betake. 
He  took  the  rose  which  grew  on  Helen's  grave 
And  to   this  thought  of  his   expression  gave. 

"My  only  gem,  part  of  her  heart,  sweet  rose, 
What   path   to  take,   o'h,    do   to  me   disclose!" 
With  that  he  casts  the  rose  into  the  lake 
To   follow   it   was  just   a  plunge   to   take: 

When  lo!  What  wondrous  sight  fell  to  his  eyes! 
He  saw  his  Helen  from  the  water  rise. 
With  insane  joy  into  the  lake  he*  wades, 
His   sweet   Helen's   coming  ashore  he  aids. 

The   lake  contained  life's   elixir  which   gave 
New  life  to  those  who  in  its  waters  lave. 
From  Helen's   earthly  dust  had  grown  the  rose, 
Helen  herself  to   life   renewed  arose. 

Most    eloquently    I    could   tell   you    all, 
Exept  the  feelings   which   John's   soul   enthral 
When  he  his  Helen  held  in  fond  embrace 
When   he  with  burning  lips  could  kiss  her  face! 

Upon  her  peerless  beauty  and  her  grace 
The  faries  all  with  admiration  gaze, 
Not  fairyland  had  e'er  such  beauty  seen. 
The  fays   elect  him  king,  make   Helen  queen! 

O'er  those  delightful  folks   in   fairyland 

— With  sweetheart's  love  caressed  by   Helen's 

hand, 

His  gracious  majesty  Childe  John  to  day 
As   their  beloved   king  still   holdeth   sway. 


SIMPLE  STEVE  125 


SIMPLE  STEVE. 

(BOLOND    IST6K.) 
A  humorous   epic. 

"He  is  coming,  I  see  him  well  enough. 

A-coming  up  to  me,  that's  what  he  tries, 
I  hear  'him  full  of  wrath,  to  scold  and  scoff, 

Ne'er  in  my  life  I  saw  such  murderous  eyes, 

How  he  the  horses  whips!  To  me  'tis  plain 
He  's  after  me,  he  runs  a  mighty  gait, 

Now  even  he  has  thrown  to  them  the  rein, 
They  must  drop  dead  to  gallop  at  this  rate. 

List'  my  dear  man,  can  you  not  be,  I  say, 

A    decent   fellow    and   leave   me   alone! 
I  tell  you,  Sir,  you  let  me  go  my  way 

And  you  can  go well  —  where  the  devil  's 

known. 
• 
Is  not  this  prairie  wide  enough  for  two? 

There's  surely  elbow  room  for  you  and  me. 
Whey  should  you  then  persist  me  to  pursue, 

The  right  is  yours,  the  left  for  me  leave  free. 

If  you  insist  that  I   respect  shall  show, 
Why,  very  well,   I'll  be  a  decent  chap, 

If  you  allow  me  but  my  way  to  go: 

I'll  promptly  doff  to  you,  dear  Sir,  my  cap." 

Thus   spoke  the   simple  youth  upon  the  road 
To  the  terrific  torrent  which  come  down. 

The  pouring  rain  howe'er  no  pity  showed 
But  rained  as  if  it  tried  that  youth  to  drown. 


126  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  he,   the  simple  youth,  what  did  he  do? 

The  youth  stood  still,  and  musingly  he  stands 
As  once  great   Caesar  stood  when   Brutus  drew 

The  dagger  which  Caesar  saw  in  :his  hands. 


Like.  Caesar  he  his  cloak  drew  o'er  his  face 

That  is  to  say  he  would  have  done  this  thing 
If  he  had  had  a  cloak,  but  in  its  place 

He  wears  a  linen  coat  of  last  year's  spring. 

Nevertheless,  as  would  around  his  neck 
Two  or  three  coats  hang  and  a  mackintosh: 

He  stood,  as  stands  the  captain  on  his  deck, 

And  then,  good-naturedly  he  says:  "Well,  bosh!" 

If  you  care  not  for  what  to  you  I  said, 
Then  g,o  to  Jericho,  we  yet  shall  see 

Who  will  get  weary  first,  just  go  ahead, 
I  care  not  if  you  drench  me  with  the  sea. 

My  God!  my  God!   in  all  the  world  the  best 

Of  Christians  I  am,  for  surely  none 
Had  been  baptized  so  soft,  still  I  detest 

To  feel  this  water  down  my  back  to  run. 

Flow,  torrent  flow!  I  care  not  for  th»  rain!- 
Just  now  you  try  to  wash  a  negro  white, 

You  might  wash  off  each  stitch  of  clothes, — that's 

plain, 
But  my  p'hilosophy  no  rain  can  spite. 

Good  humor  is  the  cloak  for  man  to  wear, 

The  tailor  sewing  it, — a  Master  he! 
And  cheap?!  Indeed  it  is  cheap  as  air, 

To   wear   it   though    but   few   people    we    see." 

Thus  mused  'the  youth  and  slowly  onward  strolled, 
He  laughed  aloud  as  if  it  were  a  joke — . 

The  torrent,  to   revenge   what  'he  had   told, 

Renewed  the  force  wherewith  the  youth  to  soak. 


SIMPLE  STEVE  127 

The  youth  howe'er  all  this  with  patience  bore, 
Again  stood  still  and  simply  stood  serene. 

Thought  to  himself,  as  be  had  thought  before, 
To  kick  would  'neath  his  dignity  have  geen. 


At  last  the  angry  clouds  were  forced  to  yield, 
All  of  them  there  disperse,  clear  is  the  sky; 

A  splendid  rainbow  rose  on  heaven's  field. 

Did   our  youth's   happy   mood   rise   in   the   sky? 

"Fair  rainbow,"  — said  the  wanderer, — "my  word, 
You  are  as  multicolored  as  my  past, 

Brig'ht  as   the   tail   of  Paradise's   bird, 

My  life  as  bright  as  that  be  henceforth  cast. 

Fair  rainbow, — triumph's  arc — built  in  the   sky, 

In  honor  of  the  victory  of  dawn, 
Which  made  the  angry  torrent  fly  and  die 

And  which  the  dark  coluds  into  shreds  had  torn, 

Fair  rainbow,  thou  art  far  away  from  me, 
But  farther  still  the  town  I   should  to  day 

Have  reached.  The  day  is  nearly  gone  I  see, 
And  awful  is  the  mud  upon  the  way. 

Although  no  prophet  I,  nevertheless 

One  thing  I   dare  foretell  and  that  is  this: 

The   girls   in    town   will   be   in   great   distress, 
Because  the  chance  to  admire  me  they  '11  miss. 

The  dear  girls  know  of  course  how  great  my  grief, 
I  can  not  help  it  though,  what  can  I  do? 

If  I  had  wings!  That  would  be  prompt  relief 
I'd  fly  as  does  that  stork  I   yonder  view.. 

What  is  then  to  be  done?  To  pass  the  night 
Here  in  the  field,  I  promptly  must  decline, 

Drenched  to  the  skin  no  man  can  find  delight, 
To  stay  outdoors  his  health  to  undermine. 


128  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I  know,  they  call  me  Simple  Steve,  howe'er 
I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  that.     I  see 

Not  far  from  here  a  house.     Well,   I   declare! 
Of  course,  to  enter  it,  I'll  make  so  free. 

Judged  by  the  looks  it  is  a  robber's  nest, 

A  meeting  place  for  cutthroats  and  for  thieves. 

No  fear  of- aught  need  have  that  kind  of  guest 
Who,  like  myself,  his  gold  in  goldmines  leaves. 

Behold!  The  chimney  smokes,  from  this  I  know: 
A  fire  ablaze  the  kitc'hen-stove  must  hold. 

'Ergo,'   I   may   enjoy  a  hearth's  warm  glow, 
"Come,  eat.  with  us!" — I  might  be  even  told. 

Is  it  not   happiness, — (a  perfect  bliss, — 

That  I   of  logic  am  not  ignorant, 
Or   else  this  reasoning  I'd   surely  miss, 

The  praise  of  schools  I   shall  forever  chant." 

It  is  a  dreary  house  he  had  espied 

Down  in  the  prairie's  heart  and  where  the  night 
To  spend  his  needs  and  reasoning  decide, 

"Let's  go!"  He  says,  "I  do  myself  invite." 

An  awful  sight, 

No  ruin  quite, 
Is  it  a  living  being's  room, 
Or   a    dilapitated   tomb? 

Like   weeping   orphan   children    stand   around 
Their  mother's  grave,  thus  can  a  few  wild  trees 

Around  that  godforsaken  home  be  found. 

At  one  time  it  has  been  the  masterpiece 

Of  clever  architects,  it  was  no  mean 

Structure  by  peasant  built.     The  iron  teeth 

Of  time  had  gnawed  on  it,  the  things  now  seen 
The  rotteness  of  long  decay  but  breathe. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  129 

The  plastering  is  peeling  off  the  wall, 

The  window-blinds  are  loose,  the  wind's  first  blow 

Alight  cause  each  one  of  them  to  break  and  fall, 
Xo  mending  care   did  e'er  they  undergo. 

An  old  and  lazy  dog  lies  at  the  door, 
Content  to  gnarl  alike  at  friend  or  foe, 

That's  all  he  does,  he  guards  the  house  no  more, 
Poor,  toothless   beast,   relic  of  long  ago. 

The  servants'  house  is  in  the  rear,  there  stands 

A  hoary  headed  farmer's  help,  he'd  work 
If  he  would  work, — some  tools  are  in  his  hands, — 
Yoke,  nail  and  axe,  to  use  them  though  he'll  shirk. 

All  is  so  sad 

As  the  look  at  a  hearse, 
As  if  it  had 

Been  cursed  by  a  curse. 

Our  young  friend  thought  as  to  the  house  came 

nigh : 

The  Tartar's   fell  invasion  's  not  yet  o'er, 
Not  here  at  least,  it  seems,  but  what  care  I, 

E'en  if  Tamerlan's  hordes  here  roar  and  soar. 

If   Dzendis-Khan  or  any  other  Khan 
The  master  here,  I   enter  all  the  same! 

I've  got  to  sleep  somewhere,  I  fear  no  man, 
Whate'er  might  be  his  station  or  his  name!1 

He  entered  bold, 

To  behold 
A  woman  old. 

She  stirred  the  fire  with  a  big  iron  thong, 

Full  of  enthusiasm  he  began: 
"Good  evening,  Rose  of  mine  so  fair  and  young 

As  my  dear  great-grandmother  is,  I  can" 


130  ALEXANDER  PETflFI 

The  worthy  old  dame  though  breaks  in  his  speech: 
"You  can  do  'nothing  here!  just  turn  around 

And  go!   And   if  you  don't,  well,  then   I   will  teach 
You  manners  and  a  thing  or  two!  Confound! 

How  dare  you  enter  here?  This  is  no  inn, 

And   at   this    hour   of   day," The   youth 

howe'er 

-Proceeds:  "Sweet  heart!  1  am  drenched  to  the  skin, 
And  late  at  night  it  is,  else  I'd  not  dare 

To  enter  here,  therefore  my  dear  old  rose" 

He  could  not  end  his  say,  she  turned  and  yelled: 

"Get  out,  and  get  out  quick,  do  you  suppose 
I'll  listen  to  your  bold,  tin/parallelled"- 

The  youth  howe'er  stood  still:  "Who  is  the  boss?" 
He  asks,   "he  may  grant  me  what  you  denied, 

I  cannot  talk  with  you,  you  are  too  cross, 
Let  me  the  master  see,  let  him  decide." 

"1   am  the  master  here,  who  asks  for  me?" 
In   deep   and   solemn   tones   someone   replies. 

The  voice  sounds  as  if  from  the  depth  of  sea 
T  came  from   a  bell   which   at  its  bottom  lies. 

The  old  man's  head  is  white,  as  white  as  snow 
And  white  the  moustache  and  the  flowing  beard. 

The  forehead  's  high  but  richly  furrowed  though, 
A  figure  to  be  honored  and  revered. 

He  stands  erect,  a  cross  built  on  the  road, 

The   winter's  snow  had  wrapped  it  in  pure  white. 

Solemnity   his   very   figure    showed, 
And  dignity  his   very  eyes  indite. 

As  if  he  were  a  churchyard,  thus  he  stood, 
Wherein  many  a  dead  had  been  laid  by. 

That  joy  's  the  oldest  grave  therein  one  could 
With  ease  with  one  glance  at  him  verify. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  131 

Lighthearted  wantonness  wherewith  our  youth 
Had   clad  his  soul,   he  promptly  casts  away, 

And  modestly,  as  it  behooves, — in  truth 

Always  well  mannered  'he, — he  turns  to  say: 

"Kind  Sir!  Forgive  me  pray,  a  wanderer  I, 
Not"  frozen  yet — true — >but  I   dont  perspire, 

1  am  drenched  to  the  skin,  my  clothes  to  dry 
Believe  me,  is  just  now  my  chief  desire. 

And  then,  if  of  the  kindness  of  your  heart 
There  still  is  left  for  me  a  tiny  share, 

I'd  ask  of  you,  do  not  let  me  depart, 
Assign  to  me  a  place  o'er  night,  somewhere." 

'  'Tis  well!''  he  said,  it  was  a  short  reply, 

The  old  man  turned  around  and  left  him  there. 
The  answer  though  his  spirit  made  rise  high, 
More  to  expect  just  then  he  did  not  dare. 

Xear  to  the   hearth  he  finds  a  cosy  seat, 
Contentedly   he   sits,   enjoys   his   rest; 

A  king  upon  a  throne  had  not  so  sweet 

A  rest  as  that  with  which  the  youth  is  blessed. 

"The   world   is   mine'' — thus   ran   his   thoughts, — 

"I  knew 

I    shall   secure   a   good  home   for   the   night, 
And  looking  at  my  case  in  proper  view: 

A  good  square  meal  too  shall  be  my  delight." 

Such  thoughts  and  thoughts  like  these  went  through 

his  mind, 

A  thousand  funny  things  he  thought  that  eve. 
Why  should  lie  not  have  day-dreams  of  this  kind, 

Was  he  not  known  by  name  as  "Simple  Steve?" 

Whate'er   has  been  and   what   he   might   expect 

He  thought  of  then  and  there  with  mind  awake, 
Did  nothing  but  reflect  and  recollect 

And  bold  and   high   the  flight   his   fancies  take. 


132  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Then  to  his  thoughts  he  would  expression  give, 
The  poor  old  dame  to  listen  thereto  bound; 

Not  yet  in  ilfe,  as  long  as  she  did  live 

Had  she  heard  man  such  funny  things  propound. 

He  said  enough  to  load  three  wagons  full, — 

— Three  big  hay-rigs  at  that; — once  in  a  while 
x  The  things  he  said  entered  even  the  dull 

Mind  of  the  dame  and   caused  that  she  would 

smile. 

Ah!  long  ago  it  was  that  she  smiled  last. 

Her  giggle  sounds  as  when  a  rusty  key 
Is  moved  in  rusty  lock  wherein  held  fast, 

But  happy  she,  it  was  easy  to  see. 

That  not  too  long  I  draw  the  story  out, 

Let  me  report.     The  greyhead  came  and  said 

"Young  man!  Come  eat  with  me!"  and  then  without 
Another  word,   sat  at  the  table's  head. 

The  youth,  when  at  the  second  time  his  plate 
He  had  piled  up,  felt  that  his  mind  ran  thus: 

Mistress    Methusalem    indeed    is    great! 

Who  thought  she'd  cook  such  fine  supper  for  us! 

This  is  a  royal  feast,  a  pity  though 
That  we,  enjoying  it,  sit  mute  and  dumb. 

I'll  entertain  him  with  my  speech,  I  owe 
This  much  to  him,  whate'er  of  it  may  come. 

"Kind  Sir!  my  honored  host:  most  excellent 
The  things  we  eat,  but  all  have  one  great  fault. 

If  you  think  it  is  not  impertinent 

I'll   point   it   out:    they   all   are   lacking   salt. 

No!  Not  that  salt!  I  mean  another  kind 
Of  salt  which  of  our  meals  the  choicest  season: 

It  is  the  pleasant  speech,  and  you  will  find 
In  what  I  told  you  there  is  solid  reason. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  133 

The  very  fish  we  ate,  saw  they  how  mute 

We  sit  around  would  mock  and  laugh  in  glee. 

Not  a  death-chamber  this?     To  execute 

To  morrow  one  of  us, — not  you,  not  me, — 

No  hangman  waits.     Silence  is  half  a  death. 

I  almost  fear  always  silent  to  be. 
If  you,  dear  Sir,  howe'er  want  save  your  breath, 

To  do  myself  the  talking  I'll  agree. 

And  I   can  talk  on  history  and  art, 

On   agriculture   and   astronomy, 
Zoology  and  of  the  human  heart, 

On   heaven   and  hell   and   plain  anatomy. 

Known  is  to  me  the  North,  South,  West  and  East, 

In  royal  palaces  I   have  dwelled, 
Have  lived  in  beggar's  hut  and  fast  and  feast 

To  me,  my  fate  in  every  form  had  dealt. 

Just  tell  me,  Sir,  whereof  shall  I  now  speak?" 
The  grayhead's  answer  shows  his  heart  how  sore, 

He  says,  the  while  his  eyes  the  distance  seek: 
"For  naught  in  life  do  I  care  any  more!" 

"Please,  my  dear  Sir," — the  youth  broke  in — "say  not 
These  things,  you   sin  against   God  if  you  do. 

Ah!  fair  and  sweet  is  life  He  did  allot 

To  us,  why  then  shall  you  His  gifts  forego?" 

"What?  Life  is  sweet  and' fair?"  the  host  replies 
And  shakes  his  hoary  head,  "Not  so,  my  boy; 

If  it  be  sweet  and  fair  't  is  but  the  prize 
Of  very  few.     No!  No!  Life  is  not  joy! 

If  you  the  burden  of  three  score  ten  years — 
Of  eighty  years  shall  once  bear  in  your  heart, 

Which  time  not  e'en  a  faded  flower  endears. 
Which  years  not  one  sweet  memory  impart, 


134  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

When  life's  tree  's  about  to  fall  and  you 
Can't  say  that  even  once  to  its  twig  flew 

The  bird  of  happiness,   e'en  once  you  knew 
It  singing  in  its  branches,  on  which  grew 

The  fruits  of  agony  of  soul  and  mind, 

Which  hang  on  them  as  men  on  gallows^hang: 

Wilt  then,  my  boy,  say,  will  you  still  it  find 

That  you  were  right  when  you  life's  praises  sang? 

My  youth   saw  winter's   rage, 
Can   you,   for  my   old   age, 
A   spring's  blossoms   presage? 

Ah!   Once  I   loved,  an  angel-  she  had  been, 

So  fair  and  sweet  and  pure  and  born  on  high! 

Mud  threw  at  her  malignity  most  mean, 

On  earth, — a  dunghill, — she  lay  down  to  die. 

My  spring  of  life  having  no  flowers  known, 
The  ghosts  of  my  despair  I   bravely  dare, 

And   full   of   hope   await   the   fairer   zone 

Of   summer's   sun   and  fruitful   autumn's   air. 

Both  came,  both  passed, — what  did  they  bring?  If  1 
To  tell  it  all  now  here  would  undertake: 

The  tale  would  surely  bring  tears  to  your  eye, 
Xay  more,   my  boy,  the  tale  your  heart  might 

break. 

The  short  contents  of  my  long  out  drawn  woe, 
Here  are  they,  list:  two  children  in  the  grave, 

One  son  is  still  alive,  for  this  one  though 
I   weep  no  more,  he  is  an  outcast  knave. 

I   cast  him  off.    Ten  years   I   have   not  seen 

That  son.     Ten  years  the  world  's  a  blank  to  me, 

Since  then  but  one  desire  in  me  is  keen: 
Within    mv   coffin    laid    to    rest   to   be. 


SIMPLE   STKVK  135 

I  settled  my  acccount  with  life,  what  more 
Wants  it  of  me?  Why  then  not  let  me  pass? 

Life  drank  my  heart's  blood  to  the  very  core, 
Then  why  not  throw  away  the  empty  glass? 

Life!  cursed  thou  art! 

Life!    be    accursed! 

This  poor  slaves's  heart 

Thou  hast  immersed 

Into   a   sea 

Of  agony! 

Life!   I  curse  thee! 

All  in  this  life  is  cursed.     One  only  thing 
There  is  in  life  which  I   do  not  detest: 

The  grave  dug  in  the  churchyard  where  they'll  bring 
My  coffin  once!  That  hole,  that  grave.be  blessed! 

A  bliss  it  surely  is  to  turn  to  dust 

And  to  forget  our  sufferings  since  birth. 

There  comes  relief!  Death  brings  relief  1   trust 
From  what  we   suffer  here,   our  life  on  earth." 

And  now  he  stopped  this  man  of  many  years, 
— Of  many   years   of   suffering, — then   bowed 

His  head.    The  youth  could  scarce  keep  back  his 

tears, 
And   only  after  pausing  long  allowed 

Himself  to  speak   again:   To  me  all  woe 

Is  sacred,   doubly  so  is  that  of  age. 
I   do  not  want  to  hurt, — forgive  me  though, — 

If  what  I   say  does  not  your  pains  assuage  . 

Kind   host,   't  is  for  your  sin  you  must  atone, 
The  punishment  met  out  then  bravely  bear, 

If  this  be   great,  your   sin  is  also  known 
As  great  and   serious,   it  is:   "despair." 


136  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Yes,  Sir,  it  is  a  sin  most  serious, 

Because  it  is  not  more — not  less 
Than  blasphemy  ,  dark   and   hideous, 

Despair  's  the  voice  of  hell.  .When  wretchedness, — 

Having  lost  faith  in   God, — cries  out  aloud 

To  heaven:  "There  is  no  God  within  thy  r.ealm," 

When  man  has  such  most  dreadful  things  avowed: 
Should  not  the  wrath  of  God  him  overwhelm? 

Should  not  the  hand  of  God  heavily  weigh 
On  such  a  man?  We  have  in  Heaven 

A  Father  who  protects  us  night  and  day, 
Whose  care  divine  to  all  mankind  is  given. 

Wre  must   trust   Him.   we  must  patiently  wait, — 
His   children   on   this   earth   are  numerous, — 

We  must  not  think  ourselves  unfortunate 
If  His  first  blessings  do  not  come  to  us. 

The  law  is  this:  wait  for  your  turn  and  not 
In  vain  you'll  wait.    Just  as  around  the  sun 

Revolves  each  day  the  earth,  thus  shall  your  lot 
In   life  yet  be:   you  have   God's  mercy  won. 

And  none  He'll  miss.     Came  not  your  turn  to  day 
Tis  sure  to  come  the  next.    On  this  rely: 

Till  man  not  happy  made  by  God's  own  way, — 
Believe  me,  Sir, — till  then  he  can  not  die. 

This  happiness  due  to  man  comes  never  late. 

One  drop   thereof   effects   a   wondrous   feat: 
All   former  ills   will   promptly   dissipate, 

A  mighty  sea  of  woes  becometh  sweet." 

Thus  spoke  the  youth.    The  old  man  was  all  ear, 
He  listened   with  the   keenest   interest. 

His  mind  takes  in  whatever  it  doth  hear 
As  infants  take  the  milk  from  mother's  breast. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  137 

And  when  the  youth  had  stopped  the  old  man  said 
Amazed    he    was,    that    was    easy    to    see, — 

"This  wisdom,  friend,  who  put  it  in  your  head? 
Who  are  you  Sir?  What  is  your  name?  Tell  UK." 


The  youth, — he   had  been  serious  too  long, 

And  felt  that  he  again  should  have  some  fun, — 

Good-naturedly  replied:   "I   lived  among 
Some  old  wise  owls,  from  them  1  won 


All  wisdom  that  is  mine.    As  to  my  name, 
I  am  almost  sorry  that  you  inquire, 

I   have  no  home,  I  "don't  know  whence  I   came, 
And  a  migrating  bird   's   my  great-grand-sire. 


I  roam  throughout  the  world, — mow  here,  now  there. 

I    only   lift   my  hat  to   whom   I   please. 
Hungry  to  be, — that  is  my  only  care, 

I'm  the  happier  the  more  I   freeze 


Because  my  future  happiness  the  more 
I    shall   appreciate.     Not   to  deceive 

You  as  to  my  true  name  I  one  time  bore, 
I  will  confess,  I  am  called:  "Simple  Steve," 


Just  now,  my  true  name  though  I  don't  know  yet. 

Next  morning  Simple   Steve  goes  to  his  host. 
To  pay  with  pleasant  speech  gratitude's   debt. 

Said  to   himself:  "Now,   Steve,  pay  what  ow'est. 


"Good  bye  old  man.  when  at  some  future  day 
Sweet  happiness  is  yours:  remember  me, 

Who  prophesied   it.  that  on  your  life's  way 
The   sun   shall  brightly   shine,   and   happy  be!" 


138  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

The  trembling  hoary   head  claspeth   his   hand, 
A  burning  tear  rolls  o'er  the  furrowed  face, 

"Farewell!  young  man,  you  woke  in  me 

and •  and 

From  whom  I  —  —      -  well,  I  find  no  word  of 

grace  — • 

Farewell!  But  no!  Let  me  say  this  to  you: 

Why  bid  good  bye?  Why  not  remain  with  me? 

Stay  here  as  long  you  care,  we'll  say  adieu 

When  weary  you  have  grown  my  friend  to  be. 

Tell  me  again  what  you  said  yesterday, 
Tell  it  to  me  an  hundred  times  or  more, 

To  me  it  does  a  sweet  message  convey 

And   helps   my   faith   and   confidence   restore. 

You  will  remain  with  me!  Say:  yes!  My  friend." 
The  youth  replied:  "Well,  yes,  I  shall  remain! 

The  matters   standing  thus,  you  may   depend 
I'll  see  to  it,  that  here  good  cheer  shall  reign. 

And  if  in  speech  like  yesterday's  you  find 

Aught  pleasure,  well,  my  speech  shall  not  run  dry 

In  hundred  years"  •  -  What's  that?  The  noisy 

grind 
Of  wagon  wheels,   loud  calls  and  now  a  cry 

Are  .heard  before  the  door.    What  is  this  noise? 

'The  old  man  calls:  "Xo  one  must  enter  here!" 
But  then  there  comes  a  maiden's  silvery  voice: 
"Not  even   1?   Xot   1,  Grandfather  dear?" 

The  door  ajar: 

We're  made  aware 
'    Of  maiden  fair, 

With   beauty  rare, 
Pale  as  a   star, 

To  have  entered  there. 


SIMPLE  STEVE  139 

She  falls  upon  the  old  man's  breast,  who  knows 
Not  what  it  means.     With  kisses  covers  she 

His  face,  wet  from  the  tear  that  o'er  it  flows, 
Midst  sobs  and  throbs  she  says:  "You  don't 

know  me, 

Your  grandchild  I !  Like  to  a  cross  I  cling 

To  you,  with  hope  and  faith,  with  joy  and  grief, 

Grandfather  dear,  to  you  my  life  I  bring, 
God  grant  it!  that  near  you  I  find  relief. 

Protect  me,  pray!  To  whom  shall  I  appeal 
If  not  to  you!  O,  that  1  had  to  run 

Away  from  him,  that  hatred  1  must  feel 
For  him   who   is   my   father,   is  your   son. 

It  is  his  home  from  which  I  ran  away, 
He  tried  to  force  me  that  I  marry  one 

Whom  I  detest.  No  heart  has  he  to  flay 

And  kill  my  own!   Pray,   let   it   not  be  done! 

I   sobbed  and  wept  and  cried,  but  all  in  vain. 

My   tears   fell   on    a   statue    hewed   of   stone. 
Do  I,  dear  Sir,  your  sympathy  not  gain 

No   fate  than  is  as  cruel   as  my  own. 

I  understand  what  means  that  look!  Oh,  dear! 

Reproach  me  not,  that  only  now,  when  I 
In   direst  need,  I   thought  of  coming  here. 

That   1, — because   I    must, — to   you   now   fly. 

Misjudge  me  not!  An  hundred  times  would  I 
Have  gladly  come,  but  he  commanded:  "No!" 

He   said:   you  loved  no  one,  are  shy  and  hie 
Yourself  from   us  because  you   hate  us  so! 

Now  I  am  here.  Thank  God,  1  am  now  here 
And  nevermore  shall  I  from  here  depart. 

Unless  you  should — unmoved  ee'n  by  my^tear, 
Refuse  your  help  and  thereby  crush  my  heart!" 


140  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

What    not    the    grayhead    tried    as    a    reply 
To  say!   One  word,  his  feelings  to   express, 

While   not    enough — as    much   as   he   would   try, 
He   could   not  find. — IMttte   is    his   happiness. 

Heartrending    sobs    and    burning    tears    alone 
Gave    evidence   that   he   was   strangely   moved, 

Ne'er  in  his  life  he  probably  had  known 
To  shed  tears  which  as  joyous  tears  had  proved. 

Just   like    two    rising,    overflowing   streams 
In  one  great  inundation  meet,  thus  met 

Within  his  mind  scenes  of  his  life;  it  seems 
His  past  and  future  were  before  him  set. 

,This  flood  of  thought  held  him  with  iron  grips, 
Though  not  his   life, — he   feard  to  lose  his   mind. 

Then  broken   phrases  rise   upon   his  lips, 

She    hears   him    say:    "For   you    sweet   child    I 

pined 

I  have  some  one  to  love! — I  feel  my  hair 
Is  turning  black,  no  longer  white  as  snow,  — 

I    saw   her  once  before,   that   time   howe'er 

In   swaddling   clothes.   Oh!   that   was  long  ago! 

How  big  she  is!  And  how  she  looks  at  me! 

Where  are  you,  my  young  friend?  draw  to  us  near. 
Look   at   this   maid,    my    sweet    granddaughter   she! 

Come  my  young  friend  and  witness  my  good  cheer. 

Give  me  your  hand,  my  friend,  but  yesterday 
You  said, — the  sentiment  was  fine  and  high, — 

'Till  man  not  happy  made  in  God's  own  way, 
That  until  then, — you  said, — man  can  not  "die. 

My  grandchild  comes  to  me  with  loving  trust, 
And  nevermore  to  leave  me  e'en  agrees- 

Your  father's  aim  I  too  say  is  unjust; 

His    persecuting  you    must    promptly   cease. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  141 

I  shall  protect  you  child  and  will  defend! 

You  need  not  fear,  you  are  now  in  my  care!" 
Such  is  his  speech  almost  without  an  end, 

And  lovingly  he  pats  the  maiden  fair. 

Again  a  noise  is  heard.     A  voice  betrays: 
The  father  claims  his  daughter  at  the  door, 

The  old  man  opes  the  door  and  proudly  says: 
"No,  Sir,  you  can't  come  in  here  anymore. 

This  is  no  'home  for  sacrilegious  man 
Like  you,  a  sacrilegious,   heartless  soul. 

But  no!   Come!  Enter  here,  come  if  you  can, 
My  corpse  though  must  first  from  the  threshold 

roll. 

Your   daughter?   She  is   here   and   here   remains, 
She  is   no  longer  yours.    Without  remorse 

You  would  ruin  her  life  beneath  the  chains 
Of  loveless  wedlock  you  would  on  her  force. 

Once   you  abandoned  me,  your  daughter  now 

Abandones    you. — Ideal    justice    this! 
To   God  and   His  eternal  law  I   bow: 

The  father  and  the  son  we  now  dismiss! 

I   curse  you  not,  nor  do  I   blessings  give, 
Just  go  and  nevermore  come  to  us  nigh. 

Out  of  our  lives!     Live  as  you  want  to  live, 
Let  us  not   meet  again  beneath  the  sky!" 

The  son,   crushed   by  the   father's  wrothful   ire, 
Dare  not  reply,   silently  sneaked  away. 

The  outstretched  arm  of  his  angry  sire 

Showed  him  the  road  and  forced  him  to  obey. 

There   stood  the   hoaryhead,   majestic,  grand! 

A  figure  like  a  pillar  formed  of  ice 
In  far  off  northern  climate's  snowbound  land. 

But  as  the  son  retreats,  the  father  sighs. 


142  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

One  deep,  souJstirring  sigh  he  heaves  and  sends 
After  the  son  he  now  has  lost  fore'er. 

Then  cool  and  calm,  all  is  well  he  pretends 
And   reenters   the   room  all   debonnair. 

Within  the  room  a  painful  silence  reigned, 

None  of  them   dared  or  cared   the   silence   break. 

But  finally,  the  youth  his  pluck  regained 
And  blurted  out:  "'Tis  time  my  leave  to  take. 

Yes,   my   dear   Sir,   I    think   there   is   no   need 

That  any  longer  I  with  you  remain, 
There  is  now  someone  here,  she  will  succeed 

Her  dear,   old   grandfather   to   entertain. 

Wiith  my  good  humor  and  my  stout,  .good  cane 
Let  me  again  now  g,o  upon  my  way. 

Farewell!    May   happiness   forever   reign 

Within  your  heart  old  man,  and  yours  fair  May." 

Then  he  would  go.  The  host  howe'er  his  hand 
Holds  fast  and  gently,  though  to  a  degree 

Commanding  voice  he  says:  As  I  have  planned 
Before  between  us  two,  so  must  it  be. 

You  stay  right  here,  what  was  but  a  request 
Before,  is  now  my  one  command.     You  saw 

My  sorrows  and  my  woe,  now  be  my  guest 
When  love  and  happiness  combine  to  thaw 

The  ice  from  off  my  heart."  "All  right,  I  stay, 
And  gladly  stay,  but  one  condition  make;"- 

The    youth    replied.— "permit    me    to    repay 
Your   kindness   by   allowing  me  to  take 

Charge  of  the  farm  and  home.  There  being  now 
A  lady  here;  all  must  be  trim  and  neat. 

I    shall  manage  the   things,  yes,   I   know  how. 
Leave   it   to   me  I   earnestly   entreat. 


SJMJ'LK   STEVE  14.- 

This  house  looks  now  as  if  it  were  the  lair 
Or  den   of  bear  or  wolf,  unfit  for  men, 

And  less  so  as  the  home  of  lady  fair, 
Just   wait   until   1    carry  out  my  plan!" 

And   with   a   will   he   started  to  the  work. 

The   servants   were   aroused, — though   lazy  they, — 
Still   he,  a-leading  them,  they  dared  not  shirk 

The    tasks   assigned    and    dared    not   disobey. 

Brooms,    rags   and   scrubbing  and   whitewashing 

brush, 

A-boiling  water,   soap'   and   kalsomine. 
All  were  to  good  use  put  and  in  a  rush 

The  house's  inside  and  its  outside  shine. 

And  clean  and  in  good  order  are  all  things, 
The  ancient  dirt  and  rust  have  disappeared. 

The  change  delightful  satisfaction  brings 
To  all  of  them,  to  every  one  endeared 

Is  Simple  Steve,  who  did  it  all.     He  did 

What  he  had  planned  most  thoroughly  and  well. 

During  the  evening  host  and  lady  bid 
Him  of  one  of  his  funny  stories  tell. 

His  was  a  master  mind  he  seemed  to  know 

By  intuition  what  to  say  or  do, 
He  knew  that  in  the  field  sweet  flowers  grow 

Which  girls  will  always  with  great  pleasure  view. 

And  knowing  this  he  goes  each  early  morn 
Into  the   field  and  gathering  sweet  flowers 

Wove  to  a  garland  wherewith  to  adorn 
The  window  of  that  pretty  maid  of  ours. 

When  the  g,irl  arose, 
Each  morning  a  rose 
Of  sweet  hue  and  scent 

Is  lovingly  sent 

By  whom?     Oh!   she  knows! 


144  ALEXANDER  PETCFI 

Each  morning  a  garland  of  flowers  fair, 
During  the  day  most  entertaining  speech; 

To  sing  his  praise  the  host  does  never  spare, 
The  flowers  and  the  praise  the  girl's  heart  reach. 

Thus  are  filled  out,  thus  fly  the  hours  and  days, 
Yea,  that  the  truth  be  known,  the  months  e'en 

All  unawares,  the   season  but  betrays:  [pass 

It  is  almost  a  year  he  met  the  lass. 

There  is  no  use  to  dilly-dally  now, 

For,  after  all,  the  truth  must  e'er  prevail. 

I   am  almost   ashamed  to   tell   it  how 
It  happened, — but  it  did, — a  funny  tale 

It  is,  still  a  most  natural  event. 

Picked  up  his  odds  and  ends  and  staff  in  hand 

Before  his  greyhead  host  quietly  went 
To  say  something  to  him  he  long  had  planned. 

He  never  said  what  he  had  wished  to  say, 
As  if  he  all  at  once  had  mute  become, 

Stood  silent,  not  by  speech  could  he  convey 
Why  to  his  greyhead  host  he  thus  had  come. 

His  eyes,  his  face's  red  betrayd  it  though, 
The  old  man  understood, — so  did  the  maid 

At  her  grandfather's  side, — that  he  to  gp 
Away  from  them  had  preparation  made. 

The  youth  and  maid 
Try  to   evade 
Each  other's  eye, 

In  vain  they  try 

They   heave   a   sigh, 

And  then  they  cry. 

The  old  man  knew 

The  wind  that  blew. 


SIMPLE   STEVE  145 

From  the  back  if  his  guest 

The    knapsack   removed, 
And  the  maiden  thought  best: 
•  Conditions  improved 

If  she  took  from  him  his  cane, — 
This   would   then   constrain 
The  youth  to  remain. 

And  e'er  since  then  to  dark  corner  consigned 
The  knapsack  and  that  staff  of  his  we  find. 
Our  Simple  Steve  is  not  foolish  enough 
To  leave  when  things  stood  thus.     Of  better  staff 

Are  made  his  mind  and  heart.     Now  that  he  felt 
To  be  with  love  regarded  by  the  two, 

Respected  by  the  host  with  whom  he  dwelt 
And  not  in  vain  for  her  love  he  would  sue: 


Quick  his  decision  came-     "Yes!  I  shall  stay." 
The  autumn  came,  its  winds  blew  o'er  the  heath,. 

And  although   rare  the  flowers  bright  and  gay 
They   culled   enough  for  a  fine  bridal-wreath. 

J    i 

When  from  the-"chtirch  they  came  as  man  and  wife 
The  dear  old  man  but  said:  "Thank  God  of  High! 

Dear  children  be.  as  happy  in  your  life 
As  I  am  now,  and  happy  now  I'll  die!" 

"You  must  not  die,"-r-whispered  the  groom-elect, 
"Your   great-grandchildren   in   the   course  of  time 

To  come  will  too  your  sweet  blessings  expect, 
Don't  think  of  death,  you  are  still  in  your  prime!'' 

Years  come,  years  go  and  time  ceaselessly  flies, 
Who  could  the  other  cause  more   happiness 

Within  that  home,  one  with  the  other  vies, 

Their  hearts  are  filled  with  thoughtful  tenderness 


146  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  now,  shall  I  or  not  describe  a  scene! 

One  wintry  eve,  the  earth  covered  with  snow, 
The  clouds  chased  by  the  winds,  the  night  serene: 

Within  the  prairie  in  but  one  house  glow 

Bright  lights  of  burning  lamps  of  which  the  flame 
Shines  on  most  happy  folks.     The  very  light 

Trembles  with  joy  so  happy  it  became 

When  it  beheld  that  truly  beauteous  sight. 

Around  the  hearth,  on  which  a  glowing  fire 
Spreads  cosy  warmth,  it  sees  a  hoary  head, 

A  husband  and  a  wife  who  do  not  tire 

To  play  with  two  fine  boys,  about  to  bed 

To  be  put  by  the  mother,  who  a  lullaby 

JS.*ow  sings  to  them 

The   great-grandfather  and 
"The  father  kiss  the  boys. 

Dark  is   the   sky 
Without,  bleak  winter  reigns,  cruel,   severe! 

Within  a  spin-wheel  's  whirled  by  mother's  hand, 
The  lullaby  's  a  song  of  love  and  cheer. 


CYPRESS   LEAVES    FROM    THE 
GRAVE    OF    DEAR  ETHEL. 


CYPRESS   LEAVES  149 


I'LL  TELL  WHAT  UNTIL  NOW.  .  . 
(Elmondom  mit  eddig.) 


I'll  tell   what   until  now    1   could 

A    sacred    secret    keep. 
As  hides  the  sea  the  precious  pearl 

Within  its   mighty  deep. 
My  precious  pearl,  beauteous  dove, 

Sweet  maiden  list'  to  me 
What  I   have  felt,  what  were  my  woes, 

I'll  now  relate  to  thee. 

I  deeply  loved,  my  love  though  brought 

But  misery  for  me, 
The  more  intense  my  passions  grew 

More  woe  begone   I'd   be. 
My  love,  my  grief, — twins  were  these  two, 

The  children  of  my  fate, 
And  all  the  time  I  loved  thee,  dear, 

I  was  unfortunate. 

My  lips  were  sealed  by  cruel  fate, 

I  did  not  dare  confess, 
Most  eagierly  I  sought  that  none 

Should  know  my  wretchedness. 
A   burden  it   had  been   my  mind's 

Condition  to  conceal, 
I  often  feared  that  crushing  me 

It  would  the  truth  reveal. 

Just  as  the  sunrays  oft  are  hid 

By  clouds,  I  also  tried 
Thy  picture   sweet   within   my  heart 
"  Most  carefully  to   hide. 


150  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

A  light  wind  though  will  dissipate 
The  clouds  upon  the  high, 

And  all  the  brigther,  warmer  shines 
The  sun  then  in  the  sky. 

That  some  one  else  I  love  I  e'en 

To  lie  had  deemed  it  best, 
The  lie  brought  gruesome  agonies 

To  my  sorrowful  breast- 
The  truth  now  has  been  told,  sweetheart, 

About   my  love,   my  woe: 
Will   thy   reply  sweet  sympathy 

And   consolation   show? 

Who  art  my  life's  redeeming  cross, 

My  life's  salvation!    Speak! 
Hast  thou  for  me  no  such  reply 

Which  I  ardently  seek? 
Of  course  thou  hast  it  not,  thy  lips 

Have  mute  become  for  aye: 
Within  thy  coffin  — •  —  dead,  I  now 

Thy  tombstone  here   survey. 


WHAT  WOULD  I  NOT  HAVE  DONE. 
(Mit  nem  tettem  volna  erted.) 


What  would  I  not  have  done  for  thee 
My  pretty,  sweet,  blonde  maid! 

E'en  to  submit  my  true  love's  plea 
My  cruel  fate  forbade. 

All  that  I  was  ever  allowed 

For  thee,  love,  to  perform: 

Was  this,  I  spread  the  funeral  shroud 
Over   thy  lifeless   form. 


CYPRESS    LEAVES  151 

WHERE   ART... 
(Hova   lettel.) 


Where  art  them  who  hast  been  the  morning  star, — 
Too  soon  extinguished  though, — of  all  my  hopes? 

I  look  for  thee,  but  vain  my  efforts  are, 

We  meet?  We  don't?  My  mind  in  darkness  gropes. 

When  in  the  silent  night  the  moon  shall  spread 
Her  yellow   rays   all   over   earth,   then   I 

My  ways  wend  to  the  city  of  the  dead 
And  consolation  there  to  find  shall  try. 


Wilt  from  thy  sleep  aroused  be  by  my  call? 

Wilt  then  thou  leave  thy  cool,  deep  couch  below 
The  earnest  words  of  love  to  hear  which  all 

My  heart  and  soul  then  utter  in  their  woe? 


-Will  then  my  call  arouse  thee  from  thy  sleep, 
Wilt  then  thou  leave  thy  cool,  deep  couch  below, 

To  wipe  away  the  burning,  tears  I  weep, 

The  tears  which  but  for  thee  beloved  one,  flow? 


Will  then  my  call  ar-onse  thee  from  thy  sleep,' 
Wilt  the~n  thou  leave  thy  cool,  deep  couch  belo\v? 

Will  to  thy  spirit,  rising  from  the  deep. 

My  burning  kiss  give  of  its  warming  glow? 


Or  does  no  grave  e'er  ope  again  its  door? 

And  shall  we  but  in  heaven  meet  again? 
Or  will  no  night,  no  heaven  evermore 

Bring  us  together?     Are  my  hopes  all   vai:i! 


152  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

AH!  HOW  SADLY... 
(Jaj  de  bus  ez  a  harangszo.) 


Ah!  How  sadly  toll  the  bells! 

The  death  bell  rings 
For  a  faded  rose-tree  twig 

Of  fifteen   springs. 

To  the  church  the   coffin  's  borne, 

That   church    within 
Which  we  were  to  have  wed  when 
Thy  love -I'd  win. 

Guardian  angel  of  my  love 

Up -in  the  high: 
Pity  me!     Destroy  me  or 

Quench  thou  my  sigh. 

Perhaps  thou  thyself  art  dead 

Killed  by  sorrow, 
For  letting  that  dear  rosebud  fade 

And    know    no    morrow? 


CLOSE    THAT    COFFIN... 
(Zarjatok  be  mar  azt  a  koporsot.) 


Close  that  coffin.     Close  it  at  last 

And  to  the  cemetery  take, 
Her  lifeless  form   I   viewed, — aghast, — 

Too  long,  yea  long  enough  to  make 
Its  memory  to  live-  fore'er 
Or  heart  and  soul  to  shreds  to  tear. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  153 

IF  WHILE  ALIVE... 
(Ha  ebren  meg  nem  latogatsz.) 


If  while  aliv>e  them  could'st  not  come 

Even    in   dreams   to   me, 
Come  thou,  beloved  dead,  1  have 

So  much  to  say  to  thee. 

To  be  together  to  comune 

Chance  vouchsafed  us  no  aid, 

What  each  to  each  desired  to  say 
Our    longing   eyes   betrayed. 

Dost  recollect?     When  I  would  call 

Thou   wouldst   swiftly  run. 
But  softly,  from  a  nearby  room 

To  spy  at  me  thy  fun. 

I  was  rejoiced  when  I   saw  thee 

So  near  and  yet  so  far, 
That  half-ope  door  appeared  to  me 

The  heaven's  gate  ajar. 

When   I   left,   thou  wouldst  from  behind 

A  curtain  see  me  go, 
Thou  thoughtst  I  know  it  not,  but  my 

Fond   heart   did  always  know. 

I   saw  thy  burial.     The  grave... 

Wherein  thy  form  must  dwell... 
Ah  me!  that  sight  brought  to  my  heart 

The  agonies  of  hell. 

A  thousand  lightnings  struck  me  when 
I   heard  the  gruesome   thud 

Of   earth   thrown   on   thy  coffin's  lid. 
Tt    froxe    my   brain   and   blood. 


154  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

That   coffin   held  my   saintly   dove. 

Wilt   ever  come  to  me? 
To  hold  thee  n«ar  my  heart,  my  arms 

Shall   e'er  wide  open   be. 

Beloved  one  come!  and  kissest  thou 
Me  with  thy  spirit  breath: 

I  follow  be  it  heaven  or  hell 
My   soul   encountereth. 


I  AM  HERE... 
(fin  vagyok  itt.) 


I  am  here,  my  consuming  bliss! 

The  faithful  pilgrim  to  thy  tomb, 
I  came  to  ask  what  didst  thou  dream 

This  first  night  in  thy  grave's  dark  room? 

Oh!  I  had  a  most  gruesome  dream, 
The  earth,  chased  by  a  wrathful   sun 

Tried  to  escape  the  hot  pursuit; 
Swift  is  the  hunt,  swift  is  the  run. 

Now  down,  now  up,  up  to  the  stars! 

Now  forward  into  moundless  space! 
All   of  the  worlds, — upset,   confused, — 

Onward    to    their   destruction    race. 

And  still  the  sun  pursues  the  earth, 

In  vain!  Now  as  through  space  they  fly, 

The  sun  pulls  with  his  iron  hand 
A  dreadful  comet  from  the  sky 

And  hurls  it  at  the  fleeing  earth. 

It  hit  my  heart.     The  pain  it  gave 
Though  awful,  still  was  naught  to  that 

I  feel  when  I  am  near  thy  grave. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  155 

UP  IN  THE  ZENITH... 
(Amott  form.. .) 


Up  in  the  zenith  of  the  sky 

A   beauteous   star   shines   bright, 

No  other  star  up  in  the  high 

Spreads  such  a  lustrous  light. 

'"Tis   Ethel's   star" — a  voice   doth   say 
Methinks — "whose   rays   you   view, 
Your  earthly  life  then  cast  away, 
Arise!  she  waits  for  you!" 

With  glad  rejoicing  I  would  rise 

To   blessings   unalloyed, 
Not  worthy  I  of  Paradise, 

My   faith    has    been    destroyed. 


I'LL  NOT  DISTURB  THY  PEACE. 
(Nem  haboritom-e  nyugalmad.) 


I'll  not  disturb  thy  peace,  dear  dead. 
My   life's   one   treasure   buried   here. 

When  with  my  sore  heart's  orphaned  child- 
My  pale-faced   woe, — I    shall   appear 

Quite  often  here,  my  tears  to  shed. 

I  will  not  come  like  tempest  wild. 
Not  come  with  noise  or  coarse  display. 

I  simply  come  to  kiss  this  stone, — 
My  tears  e'en  wipe  this  kiss  away. — 

Then  peacefully  leave  thee  alum-. 


156  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

FOR  TWO  LONG  DAYS... 
(Lattam  ket  hosszu  nap-) 


For  two  long  days  I  gazed 

Upon   her  cold   remains. 
Mute  lips  whose  speech,  closed  eyes 

Whose  sight  her  death  enchains. 

Thy   brow,    an    Eden    bare 

I   kissed:   my   solemn   seal, 

My   fiist   and   only   kiss. 

And  that  thou  did'st  not  feel. 

I    kissed   my   altar   which 

Thy  death  had  wrecked,  thy  brow. 
It   was   so  cold,  my  soul 

Js  thereto  frozen   now. 

And  I  then  kissed  thy  pall. 
Beyond  which  I  can't  see, 

Beyond  which  I  can't  step, 

Which  bars  my  heaven  to  me. 

Around  thy  coffin  saw 

The  torches'  light  disperse, 

And  saw  how  thou  wert  borne 
To  t'hy  tomb  in  a  hearse. 

I  had  been  there  myself 

I  heard  the  churchyard  bell, 

The  thuds,  when  clods  of  earth 
Upon  thy  coffin  fell. 

All  this,  all  this  I  know 

And  yet  it  somehow  seems, 

It  can't  be  true,  I  ask, 

Is  this  one  of  my  dreams? 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  157 

Then  I  go  to  thy  house 

To  look  around,  but  oh! 
I  nevermore  see  there 

Thy  eyes'  heavenly  glow. 

Nowhere  and  nevermore 
I'll  look  into  that  eye, 
Then  to  my  home  I  go 

And  heartrendingly  cry. 


WHY  DOST  THOU  LOOK  INTO  MY  ROOM? 
(Miert  tekintesz  be  szobamba-') 


Why  dost  thou  look  into  my  room 

Pale,    prying    moon? 
The  world  has  changed  with  me  of  late 

Thou'lt   see   it  soon. 

When   formerly    thy   glances    lost 

Their  way  to  me: 
An  all  consuming  love  of  life 

Thou    could'st   there  •  see. 

A  deadly  war  saw'st  going  on 

Twixt  joy  and  pain, 
But  thou  could'st  never  note  that  woe 

Had  my  joy  slain. 

But  things  have  changed.  Dost  thou  now  look 

Into  my  face: 
Thou  could'st  thereon,  as  in  a  glass, 

Thy  pallor  trace. 

I'm  cold  and  drear  as  is  the  place 

Which  to  me  gave 
This    mood:    I    have   been   weeping   o'er 

My  sweetheart's  grave. 


158  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

WHY  MOCKEST  NATURE...? 
(Termeszet,  meg  te  is  gunyolodol.) 


Fair  nature,  even  thou  dost  mock? 

Since  they  have  laid  her  here  away 
Although  midwinters  season  's  on 

Autumnal  beauteous  is  the  day. 


The  Danube's  surface  shows  no  ice, 

Saint  Gellert  mountain  shows  no  snow... 

That  to  my  body's  and  mind's  eyes 
The  contrasts  more  glaringly  show. 


Why  rise  ye  not  to  angry  wars, 
Ye  lazy  elements  why  sleep? 

North  wind — fierce  eagle  of  the  air, 
Why  dost  not  o'er  the  country  sweep? 


Why  dost  thou  not  the  clouds  pursue, 
And  make  their  snow  spread  o'er  the  ground, 
As  do  the  birds  their  feathers  drop 
Whom  the  pursuing  hunters  wound. 


My  keenest  pleasure  I  would  find 

If  I  fair  nature  could  behold 
Changed  as  my  heart:  from  Persia  fair 

Into  Siberia,  icy,  cold. 

Ah!  if  these  mellow  sunlit  days 
Are   none   of   nature's   mockeries, 

P>nt  kindly,   she  the  winter  banned. 

My  dead  love  out  there  should  not  freeze! 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  159 

WHY  SHOULD  IT  BE  ODD? 
(Mi  volna  kiilonos  azon...) 


It  is  not  odd  if  now  and  then 
I'm  seen  to  smile  'mong  merry  men, 
When   list'ning   to   goodnatured    fun? 
In  cloudy  sky  still  reigns  the   sun, 
And  when  his  light  shines  bright  on  high. 
The   clouds, — it   seems, — heartbroken    die- 


WHERE  ART  THOU... 
(Hoi  vagy  te,  regi  kedvem.) 


Where  art  thou  wild  and  reckless  boy, — 
My  old  good  humor,   cheer  and  joy? 
Thy   sister   with   her   woefilled   face, 
Did  she  crowd  thee  out  from  the  pla(5e? 

My  heart  had  been  thy  toy,  thou  played 
Therewith,   and   with   the   swiftivess  made 
By   arrows    shot   into    the   air 
Thou  and  my  heart  went  everywhere. 

Until   we   stumbled   o'er  a   grave, — 
We  felt,  alas!   we   could  not   save 

Ourselves.     That  toy,  to  thee  confined 
— (My    heart — I    broken   left   behind. 


160  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

SHE,  THE   DARLING   LITTLE   GIRL... 
(Q  a  kedves  draga  kis  lany.) 


The  dearest  little  maid  eyes  e'er  beheld 
And  love  of  life  within  my  heart  had  dwelled, 
Like   ivy   twines  itself  around   the  trees: 
So  did  fair  hope  all  of  my  heartstrings  seize. 

The  maiden  went  away, They  carri'ed  her 

To  where  she  henceforth  dwells, — her  sepulchre, 
The  doors  of  which  shut  on  her  earthly  clay, 
To  open  only  on  great  Judgment-day. 


With  her,  my  love  of  life  had  also  gone, 
Accompanied  her  to  her  grave  and  drawn 

By  forceful  ties  remaineth  with  her  still; 

Will   nevermore  the  old  dwelling  place  fill: 


This  is  the  cause  my  heart  's  now  quiet,  void... 

An   empty,  dreary  house,  almost  destroyed, 

And  through  the  ivy  which  around  it  grows, 
My  plaintive  sigh,  like  softest  zephyr  blows. 

There  is  none  who  would  nurse  it  here  below, 
It  strives  upwards — towards  the  heaven  to  grow. 
But  Oh!  Would  it  be  that  destructive  doubt, 
Did   not   constantly   cut   each    springing   sprout. 


Who  shall  then  henceforth  dwell  within  my  heart, 

Which   almost   into   ruins   falls   apart? 

An  old  hermit  might  use  it  at  his  cell, 

His  name  is  death,  he'll  come  therein  to  dwell. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  lol 

I  STOOD  BESIDE  HER  GRAVE... 
(Altam    sirhalma   mellett.) 


I   stood  beside  her  grave  where  she  at  rest... 
Exhausted,  I  my  arms  crossed  o'er  my  breast. 

A  statue  like  I   stood  beneath  the  sky. 
I   looked  upon  a  grave  with  tearful  eye. 

The  seaman  stands  upon  the  ocean's  shore 
And   glances   o'er  the  waves  which  loudly  roar. 

A  beggar  made  of  him  the  angry  sea, 
He  bows  his  head  at  fate's  cruel  decree. 


IT  IS  NOT  TRUE... 
(Hazugsag,  amit. . .) 


It   is  not  true  what   I   have   often   heard: 
That  sorrows  great  have  the  power  to  kill, 

Or   else,   where   thou,   my   sweetheart  art  interred. 
I  too,  with  thee,  dear  maid,  one  grave  would  fill. 

Our  sorrow  's  not  an;  ax  which  with  a  blow 
Doth  fell  the  tre>e  of  life  and  ends  its  woe: 

It   is  a  worm   which  gnaws — forever  gnaws. 
And  slow  but  sure  the  heart's  last  blood-drop 

draws. 


162  ALEXANDER  PET6FI 

THOU  WERT... 
(Te  voltal.) 


Thou  wert  my  rose,  my  one  and  only  one, 
Thou  didst  fade  and  my  life  's  a  dreary  void; 

Thou  wert  my  lone  life's  bright  and  warming  sun, 
And  when  thou  set:  my  life's  light  was  destroyed. 

Thou  wert  the  wings  of  my  keen  phantasies, 

.Thy  wing  broke..  .  and  no  more  my  fancy  flies. 

Thou  wert  my  heart-blood's  heat,  with  thy  decease 
M\-  life  grows  cold  as  if  submerged  in  ice. 


IF  BUT  MY  FRIENDS  WOULD  NOT... 
(Barataim,  csak  vigasztalassal. . .) 


If  but  my  friends  would  not  increase  my  grief, 
Try   with  condolences  to  bring  relief. 
My  only  treasure  now, — they  ought  to  know, — 
Bequeathed  by  my  love, — is  this  my  woe.  • 

By  my  poor  heart  this  heirloom  's  treasured  high. 

(The  heart  which  is  all  void  is  doomed  to  die. 
Be  it  sweet  joy,  be  it  heartrending  woe, 
With  one  the  heart  must  ever  overflow.) 

This  treasure   I   shall  not  spend  nor  exchange 
For  all  the  bliss  within  the  world's  range. 
Within  the   secret   workshop   of  my   mind: 
Each  part  is  for  a  beauteous  song  designed. 

Each  song  shall  be  a  stone  to  build  a  home, 
High,  into  clouds  to  reach   its  mighty  dome. 
This  proud  and  beauteous  structure  be  fore'er 
The  pantheon   of  my  dead   sweetheart  fair. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  153 

I  HAVE  WANDERED  FAR  AWAY. 
(Messze  vandorcltam.) 


I  ve  wandered  far  from  thee,  my  dear,  departed  soul, 
But  be  I   anywhere,   sad  recollections  roll 

Back  to  thy  grave,  as  if  they  found  a  deep, 

dark  Hue 

\\  Inch  from  thy  tomb  runneth  to  where 

I   might  repine. 

I  have  returned  to  thee,  I   could  not  greet  thee 
,,,.  though 

With  loving  kiss,  thou  art  within  the  grave  below. 
Like    weeping   willow   tree   its   crown:   1    bend   my 

head, 

Aot  on  thy  soft  breast  but  the  hard  head-stone 

instead. 

My  fingers  play,  not  with  thy  silken  hair,  they  play 
With  blade  o'grass  which  sprung  up  from  Un- 
earthly clay. 
The  whispers  which  I  hear  not  from  thy  sweet 

lips  rise, 
The  gentle  winds  that  blow  bear  but  the 

graveyard's  sighs. 

Thus  I  am  lost  in  thought  while  on  thy  grave  I  gaze, 
And  quieted  and  calm  I  think  of  bygone  days. 
My  mind  is  all  at  peace,  the  tempest  of  my  woe 
Has   run   its  course,  has  ceased  many  a  day  ago. 

A  calm  sea  is  the  past,  thy  death  has  been  the  rock 
On  which  the  barge  of  hope  I  steered,  met  with 

the  shock 

Which  upset  it-  That  rock  now,  in  the  distant  blue 
Marks  the  horizon  which  with  quiet  heart  1   view. 


164  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  it   shall  rise   before  my   eyes   fore'er  and  e'er! 

Thy  picture,  Ethel  dear,  within  my  heart  I'll  bear 
Until  I  die.  Upon  thy  tomb  the  wreath  must  fade 
Within  my  heart  e'er  green  thy  memory, 

sweet  maid! 


COME    SPRING,    COME... 
(Jojj    tavasz,   jojj...) 


My  thoughts,  last  autumn,  were:  come  gentle  spring, 

Because   sweet  happiness  to  me  you'll  bring. 
My  sweetheart  to  some  country-place  shall  move 
My   calls   on   her   she'll   lovingly   approve. 

Yes,  is  she'd  be  one  hundred  miles  away, 

An  hundred  miles  I  would  traverse  each  day. 
When  early  dawn  is  kissed   by  rising  sun, 
\\  lien  by  the  sun  aroused,  night  has  begun 

To  spread  its  wings,  and  when  the  moon  on  high, — 

A  sultan  he,  for  whom  the  starry  sky 
The  harem. is,  calls  on  his  fairy  fays: 
Her  faithful  shadow  then  I'll  be,  always 

And  e'er  her  footsteps  following,  until 

Her  love,  like  springtide's  flowers  fair  shall  fill 
Her  heart,  and   she   with   virgin-blushes'   glow 
One  of  these  flowers     shall  on  me  bestow! 

Why  should  she  not  pin  roses  to  my  breast? 

Does  it   not  a  bethrothal's  kiss   suggest? 

Come  springtide  come!  Come  with  flowers  replete, 
I'll  need  them  for  my  sweetheart's  bridal  wreath. 

Come  springtide  come!  Yield  me  thy  flowers 

which  bloom, 
1   want  to  put  a  wreath  upon  her  tomb. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  165 

TIME  HEALS  ALL  WOUNDS... 
(Hatalmas   crvos   az   ido.) 


Xo  better  healer  e'ver  was  known  than  time 

Which    ever    .swiftly   flies. 
\\  hate'er     my  sufferings  are  now,  his  art 

He'll    promptly    exercise: 
My  woe  which  now  's  a  dark  and  stormfilled  cloud, 

Shall    soon    calm    moonray    be 
\\"hich    spreads   bright   light   over   my   memories' 

Unruffled,    placid    sea. 

The   never  tiring  hands  of  fate  might  yet 

A    garland    weave,    thereby 
My  love  of  life  and  convalescent  heart 

A-strength'ning   vivify. 
It  is  conceived  with  ease  how  sad  shall  be 

The   speech,   the  flowing  tears, 
Wherewith    the    broken    heart   fore'er   takes   leave 

Of  joyful   hopes  and  cheers- 
It  is  for  this  that  now  when  cold  and  bare 

And  hopeless  is  my  breast, 
It  is  for  this  that  now  I'm   fond  to  go 

Wlhere   sweet    Ethel  's   at  rest. 
Embrace,   oh   death,   my  weary  life!   How  sweet 

It  would  be  now  to  die. 
As   sweet  as  for  the  little  babe  it  is 

On  mothers  breast  to  lie. 


And   when    1    die   one   sole   and   only 

[    leave.      I    humbly    crave 
That    I    be  laid   to   my   eternal   sleep 

Close   to    my    sweetheart's    grave. 
Each    midnight   we   t<>   each   nther   our  dreams 

A-whispering    o  >nvey. 
We'll   rise   together   at   the  angel's   call 

On    resurrection-day! 


166  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

A  TINGE  OF  BLUE... 
(Keket    mutatnak    meg.) 


In  far  off  wood  do  leaves  of  trees 
To  have. a  tinge  of  blue  still  seem? 

When  o'er  it  sweeps  the  stormy  breeze, 
Is  foamy   still   the   Danube   stream, 

As  foams  the  fiery  stud  which  flies 

When  rider  bold  the  whip  applies? 

Doth  still  grow  red  the  fair  bride, — dawn, — 
When  her  groom, — the  sun — makes  'his  call? 

Sad  widow's  tears  over  the  lawn, 

The  night's  dew  drops, — do  still  they  fall 

When  as  night  heaven  and  earth  enfolds, 

The  stars — her  orphans — she  beholds? 

At  one  time  my  horizon  knew 

Xo  bounds  and  I  could  see  it  all. 

A  tiny  grave — my  sweetheart's — grew— 
Methinks — into  a  mountain  wall, 

Which  now  shuts  from  my  purblind  eye 

All  of  the  world,  the  earth,  the  sky. 


DID  I  COMPLAIN? 
(Panaszkodam  hat?) 


Did  I   complain,  made  I  a  piteous  plea? 
With  my  complaint  did  heartsore  I  annoy 
My  fellow  men.  as  does  the  whining  boy 

Whose   fingers  bleed!   Shame   and   disgrace   on  me! 

And  after  all  what  was  the  use  to  weep? 

At  hearts  surcharged  with  woe,  men  never  cease 
To  mock  or  tender  them  their  sympathies. 

Let  them  their  jeers,  their  fellow  feeling  keep. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  167 

Could  I  have  told  in  speech  my  woeful  fate? 
Can  it  be  told,  what  it  is  'fore  a  grave 
To  weep  o'er  her,  to  whom  you  truly  gave 

Your  life's  best  love,   death   can't   annihilate? 


Howe'er  I  did  complain.     I   did  annoy 
My  fellow  men  by  talking  of  my  woe, 
Permitted  them  to  see  my  tears'  fast  flow, 

As  if  1  had  been  but  an  o'ergrown  boy. 

But  henceforth  I   shall  nevermore  complain: 
Into  an  icy  lake  shall  change  my  heart, 
Without  a  stream  by  which  it  might  depart, 

But  where  unseen  may  live  my  endless  pain. 


HOW  SAD  IS  LIFE  FOR  ME... 
(Beh  szomoru  az  elet  en  nekem.) 


How  sad  is  life  for  me  e'er  since  the  day 
My  sweetheart  to  her  grave  has  been  consigned. 

I  drag  myself  about,  a  withered  spray 

Which  blowing  winds  upon  the  highway  find, 

And  borne  about  more  lifeless  grow  and  dry 

Leaf  after  leaf  they  lose  and  then  they  die. 


A  sense  of  woe  will  often  o'er  me  creep 
And  like  a  hungry  beast,  with  brutal  force 

Its  sharp  claws  in  my  heart  will  bury  deep. 
I   curse  aloud  a  fate  which  to  the  doors 

Of  heaven   will   lead  ns  men,  but  which,  alas! 

Will   not  permit  us  o'er  its  threshold  pass. 


168  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Most  oft  in   silence   I    carry  my  grief. 

Am   1   alive  or  dead?     I   do  not  know-  — 
Friends  speak  to  me,  their  speech  gives  no  relief. 

To  what  they  say  1  listen  not,  and  though 
I   used  to  be  glad  when -they  came,  I  own 
I  am  now  happiest  when  left  alone. 

I   often   roam   about,  without  an   aim 

I  walk  and  walk,  till  I — I  know  not  how 

To  my  beloved  maid's  sepulchre  came, 

A   sweet  hope  holds  me  fast  there,  I   avow. 

This  hope  is:   here  my   heart   is   rent   in   twain. 

O  hope!  O  hope!  Why  is  all  hope  in  vain. 


WHEN   SORELY   SUFFERING... 
(Midon    nagyon   bant...) 


When   sorely   suffering  in   heart  and   mind, 

I   promptly  leave   the   town   and   world   behind, 

And  then  my  steps  towards  the  graveyard  wend. 

Where  men  are  laid  by  to  their  dreamless   end, 

But   when    it    midnight    strikes    and   when    on    high 

The   pale   moon   wanders   in   the   cloudy  sky; 

The  buried  corpses  interrupt  their  sleep, 

Come  forth  out  of  their  gloomy,  narrow  deep, 

And  clad  in  white   they  wander  to  and  fro' 

Until  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  a  crow 

Anoitnces  loud;  there  to  the  graves  I   go 

When   nights   I   am  tormented  by  my  woe. 

When,  then,   I,  at  the  grave  of  Ethel  dear 

Can  freely  weep  and  with  the  flowing  tear 

My   doleful    soul    plaintively    sighs,    relief 

And    ease    come   then    to   my   heartrending   grief... 


1'iit  then  shall  T   of  all  sorrow  be  free 

W'hen  at  thy  side  thy  grave  I   share  with   thee. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  169 

THE  SNOW,  THE   FUNERAL  PALL... 
(A  ho,  a  holt  fold  teli   szemfedoje.) 


The    wintry   pall   of   lifeless   earth:   the   snow 

Had  fallen  at  the  night. 

The    churchyard's    clad    in    white. 
The   morning   sun  looks   sadly   duwn   and  though 

In    shineth    bright. 

Its  rays,   it  seems,  but  with   reluctance  spread 
Over   the   barren   realm   of  the   dead. 

The   snow  within  the   churchyard  does   not  melt, 

Around    one    only    spot 

It  disappeared,  but  not 
The  sunrays  makes  it  yield.  For  whom  I   felt 

Deeprooted.   hot 

And    passionate    love,    sweet    Ethel    's    buried   her* 
The  snow  yields  to  my  freely  flowing  tear. 


IF  IN   HER  LIFE... 
(Ha    eleteben...) 


If  in  her  life  I  had  not  loved  her  well, 

This    sweet,    fair,    curly-headed    maiden    here: 

I'd  love  her  since  my  eyes  upon  her  fell 
As  she  lay  cold  and  lifeless  on  her  bier. 

How  beautiful   was   she!     As  if  at  morn 
A  queenly  swan  upon  her  wings  would  stir, 

As  pure  snow  would  the  wintry  rose  adorn: 
The    white   angel    of   death   thus    came   to   her. 


170  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

OUR  HOARY  EARTH... 
(Jatszik  dreg  foldiink.) 


Our  hoary  earth  is  e'er  at  play 

With  bright  rays   of  the   sun, 
A-cooing,  wooing  all  the  day, 

And  kissing  while  their  course  they  run. 

On   Danube   river's   shining   face, 

On  hill  and  vale,  on  window  pane, 

On  churchspires  of  the  market  place, 
Their   burning   kisses   showeth   plain. 

At  dawn,  at  eve,  e'er  full  of  cheer, 
The   sun   is  full   of  mirthful   glee, 

As  if  the  grave  which  riseth  here, — 

My  Ethel's  tomb, — he  would  not  see. 


WITHIN  THIS  ROOM... 
(E   szobaban   kiizkodott.) 


Within  this  room  fought  life  and  death 
For  her  and  here  she  sighed  the  breath 

Which    closed   the    fight. 

Eternal  night 

Came  to  the  maiden  fair  and  bright. 

Within  this  room  I  freely  shed 
A  sea  of  tears  for  the  dear  dead. 

Why  did  this  flow 

Not  drown  my  woe, 

Did  not  my  life  end  here  below? 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  171 

Within  this  room  henceforth  I'll  dwell. 
The  very  walls  sweet  tortures  spell: 

But   happy   I! 

She's  always  nigh, 

I   see  her  with  my  mental   eye. 

Within  this   room, — for  this   I   pray, — 
I  want  to  live  until  that  day 

When  'neath  this  sun 

My   course   I've   run, 
And  I  my  goal — my  grave — have  won. 


MY  MOTHER,  MY  MOTHER... 
( Anyarn,  anyam . .  r ) 


My  mother,  my  mother,  the  best  though  the  most 

Disconsolate  mother  that  lives! 
Miser    reality — the    cruel    master   of'  hope, — 

To   thee   thereof   no  portion   gives. 

Like  Xoah  of  old  thou  hast  sent  out  thy  doves 
Of  hope  to  find  thy  yearning's  goal, 

With   realization's   green   twig   in  their  bills 
No  bird  returned  to  cheer  thy  soul. 

Thy  last,  fondest  hope:  when  once  in  thy  grave 
Thou  liest  cold  in  dreamless  sleep, 

Thy  sorrowing  son,  some  warmth  will  bring 
With  the  burning  tears  which  he  shall  weep, 

Will   not   be  realized.     This   consolation   e'en 
Can   not  be   thine!     Forgive   him  pray! 

At  his  beloved  sweetheart's  grave,  thy  son 
All  of  his  tears  has  wept  awey. 


172  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

THE    CLOCK    STRUCK    TWELVE... 
(Tizenkettot   iitott   az    ora...) 


The  clock  struck  twelve  and  from  the  stroke 

I   from   my   slumber  deep   awoke. 
Within   my  dark   room,   I 
A  white  figure   espy 
Soft   gliding  o'er  the   floor 
And  from  my  awed  heart's  core 

There  came  a  cry:  "Thou'rt  come  sweetheart, 

Upon  my  tree  of  bliss  thou  art 

The  fruit  which   too   untimely   fell 
Come  to  my  arms  and  let  me  tell 

Thee  my  dear  sweet  fugitive  dove: 
My  lips  await  thy  kiss  of  love." 

In    accents    soft    and   mild. 

Reply   came    from    the    child: 
"Wait,   wait!  first   let   me  find 
My  life!  to  be  consigned 
Within  the  cold,   dark  tomb 
Is  a  most  awful  doom, 
It  is  so  dark  and  drear 
I   want  life  warm  and  clear. 
Pray  then,  give  back  to  me 
My  life,  alone  with  thee, 
To  live  anew  thou  wilt  me  see!" 

Pelov.ed  one!  I  can  not  give 
What  I  have  not,  but  if  to  live 
Anew,  thou  need'st  a  soul,  my  own 
I  yield,  't  is  thine  and  thine  alone!" 

I  strove  to  give  it  her, but  night 

Had  swallowed  up  the  ghostly  sight. 


CYPRESS  LEAVES  173 

DO  I  IN  VAIN... 
(Hiaba  varlak  hat...) 


Do  I  in  vain  must  henceforth  wait  for  thee, 
Sweet  child,  for  whom  my  mournful  tear 

I  freely  wept?  Wilt  thou  no  more  appear? 

As'  heretofore  thou  used  to  come  to  me 

At   midnight,  bringing  me  a  moment's   cheer? 

The  night  comes,  midnight  comes,  but  what  care  I? 
Thou  cometh  not  with  it,  I  see  no  more 
Thy  gentle   spirit   entering  my  door, 

I   cover  up   my  weary,   tearfilled   eye 

With  clipped  wings  of  my  hopes  of  days  of  yore. 

Where  art  thou?  W'hy  dost  thou  remain  away 
Sweet  beauteous   maid  whose  loss   I   e'er  bewail? 
Art  'fraid  of  me,  because  my  face  is  pale? 

Fear  not  my  face,  I   pined  for  thee  alway, 
This  caused  its  ghastly   color  to  prevail. 

Oh!   come  again,   once  more  rise  from  thy  grave 
Who — though  a  shade — still  art  fairer  than  fair — 

To   see  thee  once  again,   oh,   how  I   crave! 

Shouldst  tell  me  for  my  grief  thou  dost  not  care, 
Ah!    dear   one,    to   beseech   I'll   no   more   dare. 


MYSTERIOUS,  ENCHANTING... 
(Mi  biivos,  bajos  hang...) 

Mysterious,   enchanting   sound! 

As   if  the  vesper   bell,  which   fills  the  air, 
The   pious   village   folk   would   call 

Aloud,   with  solemn  voice,  to  prayer. 


174  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

It  is  the  sad  sweet  memory 

Of  a  sweet  girl  which  rings  within  my  soul, 
The  maiden  young  and  beautiful 

Over  whose  grave  my  tears  incessant  roll? 


DISCARDED  LUTE... 
(Fiigg  mar  a  lant. . .) 


Discarded   now    it    hangs    upon    the    wall 
The  lute,  on  which  my  grief  I   sang  away 

For  thee,  sweetheart,  who  in   thy  funeral  pall 
\Yithin  this  grave  imprisoned  art  for  aye. 

There  is   the  lute,   discarded,  on  the  wall, 
Brooding   in    silent   woe,   if   e'er   it    sings 

It  will  not  be  the  kite's  harmonious  call, 

It  will  be  but  the  sound  of  snapping  strings. 


SELECTED   LYRICS. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  177 


AT  HOME. 
(Hazamban.) 


Beautiful  home,  upon  thy  wide-spread  plain 
Expands  a  waiving  field   of  golden  grain, 
Whereon    the    mirage    plays,    O,    coutry   dear, 
Knowest  thou   still   thy   son,  now  pining  here? 

'Tis  long  ago  since  welcome  rest  I   found  .j 

Beneath  the  poplar  trees  I  yet  see  round,  '' 

While,  through  the  autumn  sky  high  overhead, 
Migrating  cranes  in  V-shape   southward   sped. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  our  house,  with  tears,. 
Heartsore,  I  bade  good-by  to  all  my  dears, 
And  when  dear  mother's  last  and  parting  sigh 
On  gentle   zephyr's   wings  away   did   fly; 

Ah,  many  a  line  of  years,  since  tlien  begun, 
Their  course  completed,  to  their  death  have  run, 
While  on  revolving  wheels  of  fate  I  passed 
Through  various  scenes  in  which  my  lot  was  cast. 

The  great  world  is  the  school  of  life,  I   trow, 
Through  which  I  plodded  with  perspiring  brow, 
Because  the  road  I  trod  was  hard  and  rough, 
And,  from  the  start,  I  traversed  wastes  enough. 

I  know — and  none  knows  better  than  I  well  think — 
To  whom  experience  held  her  hemlock  drink, 
That  rather  I  would  drain  the  cup  of  death 
Than  the  black  chalice  which  she  proffereth. 


178  .        ALEXANDER    PETOFI 

But  now  despair  and  grief  and  bitter  pain 
Which  swelled  my  .heart  nigh  rending  it  in  twain, 
Are  gone;  their  memory  e'en  is  washed  away 
By  holy  tears  of  joy  I  shed  to-day. 

For  here,  where  once  1   lay  on  mother's  breast, 
Drank  in  'her  honeyed  love — to  me  the  best — 
The  sun  shines  smilingly  from  heaven's  dome 
Again  on   thy   true   son,   O   fair,  loved  home! 


ON  THE  DANUBE. 
(A  Dunan.) 


Tell  me,  "old  stream,  how  oft  thy  bosom  strong 
Is  cleft  by  storms  and  ships  that  glide  along? 

How  deep  and  wide  these  rifts!  On  heart  of  man 
.Inflict  such  wounds  no  grief  or  passion  can. 

Yet,  when  the  sfoip  is  gone  the  storm  is  o'er, 
The  stream  rolls  smoothly,  showing  rifts  no  more. 

But  when  the  human  heart  is  cleft,  no  calm 
JUan  heal  the  wound  or  bring  it  aught  of  balm. 


A  FUNNY  STORY. 
(Furcsa  tortenet.) 


"(  ook  out!  Beware!  's  the  old  man's  friendly  chaff, 
"Young  man!  Look  out,  watch  o'er  your  better  half, 
The   woman  's  young  and   beautiful,  and  hence, 
lie  ware!  there  is  a  nigger  on  the  fence!'' 


SELECTED   LYRICS  179 

"Poor,  dear,  old  man,  I  trust  they  are  not  true 
The  stories  which  I  hear,  but  take  this  cue: 

The  people  who  within  glass  houses  live. 

Must  throw  no  stones,  is  the  advice  I  give." 


"This  is  all  nonsense,  I  tell  thee  my  friend, 
Her  days  of  skylarking  are  at  an  end!" 

"E'en  old  goats  lick  the  salt,  'is  often  heard, 
Well,  no  offence,  the  tale  might  be  absurd." 


The  older  man  the   chance  would  often  seize, 
The  younger  one  with  his  .warnings  to  tease. 

"The  woman  's  young  and  fair"  would  always  be 
The  lesson  given  in  good  natured  glee. 


What  happened  next?  The  old  man  stayed  away 
For  many  months  from  his  young  friend.     One  day 
The  younger  one  made  up  his  mind  to  see: 
What  might  of  this  strange  thing  the  reason  be! 


While   on   his   way,   he   sought   what   to   reply 
When  his  old  friend  again  to  tease  should  try. 

When  'he  again  should  hear:  "Look  out!  Beware! 

That  better  half  of  yours  is  young  and  fair." 


But  lo!  This  time  the  old  man  did  not  tease, 
And  left  his  friendly  visitor  in  peace. 

Not  only  did  not  tease,  but  shook  his  head, 
And   almost   tearfully  he   slowly   said: 


"Yes,  you  were  right,  my  friend,  to  me  to  quote 
The  old  proverb  of  yours  about  the  goat" 
Just  then  his  wife's  new  babe  began  tu  cry, 
What  could  he  do?     He  hums  a  lullaby! 


180  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

IN  THE  FOREST. 
(Vadonban.) 

Night's  darkness  o'er  the  forest  creeps; 

Of  a  safe  guide  I  am  bereft; 
Which  path  leads  from  these  lonely  deeps? 
Is  it  the  one  to  right  or  left? 

Far  o'er  me,  on   the  arch  of   sky, 
Many  a  star  doth  brightly  shine. 

Taking  their  course,  who  knows  if  I 

Might  reach  the  goal  for  which  I  pine? 

For,   brighter   than   all    stars   above, 

In  lustre  shone  my  darling's  eye; 
I   trusted  her;  false  was  her  love: 

Deceived,  still  o'er  my  loss  I  sigh! 


WHAT  USE? 
(Mi  haszna  hogy  a  csoroszlya.) 


Of  what  avail  to  plough  the  earth 
Without  the  seed  that  brings  to  birth? 
Neglecting  this  but   weeds  will  grow, 
And  all  your  work  for  naught  will  go. 

Believe   me,   fairest,   sweetest   rose, 
Beneath  thy  glance  my  poor  heart  glows; 
And  as  the  plough  the  ground  upheaves 
Thy  glance  my  heart  in  furrows  leaves. 

Thy  glance  in  vain  cuts  deep  my  heart 
But  sorrow  from  its  dephts  will  start; 
But  if  thou  sow  with  love,  then  fair, 
Sweet-scented  roses  blossom  there. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  181 

FROM  AFAR. 
(Tavolbol.) 


A  house  stands  by  the  "Danube  far  away, 

To  me  so  fair,  1  think  of  it  all  day; 

The  fond  remembrance  of  that  spot  so  dear, 

Will   ever  make  my  heart  swell  with  a  tear. 

Ah.  had  I  never  thence  set  forth;  but  man 
Is   always  moved  by  some  ambitious  plan, 
And   falcon-wings  grew  to   my  heart's  desire 
I  left  my  home,  my  mother,  and  my  sire. 

How  gre.at  my  mother's  grief  I  cannot  tell; 
When  bidding  her  'mid  sobs  and  sighs,  farewell, 
The  pearly  dew,  that  showered  from  her  eyes, 
To  quench  her  burning  pains,  did  not  suffice. 

Still  do  I  feel  her  trembling  arms'  embrace; 
Still  do  I   see  her  haggard,  care-worn  face. 
Oh,  had  I  then  my  fate  at  all  foreseen, 
Her   dear   entreaties  vain  had  never  been. 

Seen  in  the  rays  of  hope's  bright  morning  star, 
Our  future  days  enchanted  gardens  are; 
Only  to  our  delusion  do  we  wake. 
When  in  the  devious  pathway  of  mistake- 

But  why  relate  how  hope's  enticing  ray, 
Though  cheering  me,  misled  me  from  my  way? 
How,  wandering  o'er  the  bleak  world's  barren  sod, 
My  faltering  feet  on  myriad  thorn-spikes  trod. 

Some  friends  have  started  toward  my  home  to  go; 
What  of  the  truth  shall   I   let  mother  kimw? 
Go  to  her,  countrymen,  if  yon  come  near 
The  'house  wherein  reside  my  parents  dear. 

Pray,  tell-  my  bles>ed  mother  not  to  fret; 
Say  that  her  son   is  now   fair   fortune's   pet. 
For  should  the  loving  soul  the  j.lain  truth  hear, 
Her   tender   heart,    alas.   \v.  ul<!   break.   1   fear! 


182  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

LONGING  FOR  DEATH. 
(Halalvagy.) 


Give  me  a  coffin  and  a  grave, 
And  let  the  grave  'be  deep  and  low; 

And  bury  with   me   all   I    feel, 

All  passions  strong,  all  thoughts  of  woe. 

O,  mind  and  heart,  twice  cursed,  e'er  have 
You  been  the  bane  of  my  whole  life! 

Why  torture  me  with  burning  scourge? 
Why  should  not  end  now  all  this  strife? 

Why  should  this  feverish  brain  inspire 
To  rise  above  the  stars  on  high? 

When  angry  Fate  hath  it  ordained 
That  crawl  upon  the  earth  should  I. 

Why  have  I  not  fair  heavenly  wings, 
If  my  aims  soar  to  heaven's  dome? 

To  carry  me  into  heights  where 
Immortality   is   at  home! 

And  if  to  me  this  world   is  void 

Of  joy,  why  have  I,  then,  a  breast? 

Created  that  of  human  joys 

It  be  the  home,  the  shelt'ring  nest! 

Or  if  there  be  a  heart  which  flames 
And    burns    in   passion's    deep   abyss, 

Why,  then,  this  icy  look  on  me, 
Thou  God  of  happiness  and  bliss? 

Give  me  a  coffin  and  grave, 

And  let  the  grave  be  deep  and  low; 

And  bury  with  me  all   I   feel, 

All  passions  strong,  all  thoughts  of  woe. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  183 

WOLF  ADVENTURE. 
(Farkaskaland.) 


"Thou'st   eaten,  comrade;  bloody  are  thy  fangs, 
While   we  around   here  suffer  hunger's  pangs. 

"The  howling  tempest  'blows,  while  far  and  near, 
The  land  lies  waste;  the  winter  is  severe. 

"No  trace  can  we  espy  of  man  or  beast; 

Come!  tell  us  quickly,  now;  where  was  the  feast?" 

A  pack  of  hungry  wolves  thus  seek  to  learn, 
Where  one — their  fellow — did  his  prey  discern. 

Without   delay,   the  wolf  that  hath  fared   well 
Proceeds  the 'following  narrative  to  tell- 

"A  shepherd  and  his  wife  a  hut  maintain. 
Which  I  sought  out,  down  there  in  yonder  plain. 

"Behind  their  hut,  I  knew  there  was  a  fold; 
Hearing  the  sheep  bleat,  I  to  sup  made  bold. 

"To  this  abode  last  night  did  softly  hie 

Two  stealthy  wanderers — one  young  man  and  I. 

"He  had  a  sweet  tooth  for  the  shepherd's  wife. 
I,  for  the  sheep,  was  bound  to  risk  my  life. 

"The    lover   sneaked   around;    T    could    not    sup 
On  mutton,  so.  instead,  I  ate  him  up!" 


184  ALEXANDER  PET0FI 

I. 

(fin.) 


The   world  is  the  garden  of  God. 

And  man — the  weed  and  flower  from  its  sod — 

Is   the   crop. 

Within  this  garden   I'm  a  tiny  seed, 
But  if  it  be  God's  will  not  to  a  weed 

Shall  I  grow  up. 

Pure  are  the  depths  of  this  ambitious  breast, 
A   providence   divine  did  it   invest 

With   holy   flames, 

Which  vestal  fires  on  virtue's  altar  burn 
Within  my  stainless  heart  and  ever  turn 

To  highest  aims. 

I   ask  no  favors  at  the   hand  of  fate, 
Whatever  it  may  bring,  1   bravely  wait 

For  bad — for  good.  —  — 
Fate  is  capricious,  what  it  gives  to  day, 
Without  ado  to  morrow  takes  away, 

That's  understood. 

Just  as  the  lowland's  plain  where  I  was  born 
As  straight  and  even  are  my  deeds,  I  scorn 

Duplicity. 

Plain  is  my  speech  and  what  I   mean  I  say, 
To  me, — from  truth's  pathway  to  go  astray 

Is    infamy. 

A  precious  tree, — Almighty  God  above 
Has  planted  in  my  heart  of  hearts:  a  love 

Most  passionate! 

And  from- its  twigs  and  flowers  and  leaves  I  twine 
A  wreath  which   1   to  thee,  sweet  home  of  mine, 

XM\V    dedicate. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  18S 

LIVING  DEATH. 
(£16  halott.) 


I  do  not  feel  glad  when 

Fair,  sunlit  springtide  comes, 

1  feel  not  sad  when  all 

To   winter's  frost  succumbs. 

As  o'er  an  autumn  eve 

Had  come  a  mist  all  dense, 

Over  my  heart  had  come 
A  qpld  indifference. 

I  am  all  through  with  them: 
The  foe.  the  friend,  the  mate, 

Tis  nobody  1  love, 
'Tis  nobody  I  hate- 

I    have    not    a    pleasure. 

Xo  woe  o'er  which  to  weep, 
All  sentiments,  all  aims, 
I've  put   them   all   to   sleep. 

One  only  yearning  is 
Awake  within  my  breast: 

As  soon  as  possible 

Within    my  grave   to   rest. 


THE  LAST  CHARITY. 
(Az  utolso  alamizsna.) 


A  single  mother  bore  these  two — 

The  poet  and  the  angry  fate — 
And  thus  this  life  they  journeyed  through 
Sworn    friends    and    ever   intimate. 


186  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Trees  then,  as  now,  grew  all  around, 
And  many  rested  in  their  s'hade; 

It  served  the  minstrel,  too,  who  found 
A  branch,  of  which  a  staff  he  made. 

These  were  the  only  friends  he  knew — 
The  beggar's  staff,  the  angry  fate. 
All  else  were  faithless  and  untrue, 
But  each  of  these  was  his  true  mate. 

But  what  had  of  his  lute  become? 

Do   minstrels   not   possess   a   lyre? 
Aye — aye — he  had  one,  too,  not   dumb, 

That  gave  forth  strains  to  charnj  and  fire. 

Once  of  his  lute  he  grasped  the  string — 
Once  in  a  stormy,  thundering  night — 

And  mute  became  the  thunder's  ring 
To  hear  his   song  far   up  the   height. 

And  when   the  angry,  murky  sky 

Had  listened  to  'his  song  divine, 
It  looked  with  smiling,  starlit  eye 
Down  on  the  bard  in  calm  benign. 

But,  lo!  when  hunger  to  him  came 
He  went  the  sons  of  men  to  greet, 

Thinking   the   hardest   heart   to   tame 
With    strains   so   marvellously   sweet. 

That  which  had  lulled  the  tempest's  roar 
And  made  the  dark  sky  smile  again, 

In  mighty  chords  he  did   outpour 
With   mellow   and  melodious   strain. 

But  what  the  storm  a-nd  sky  obeyed 

Fails    utterly   men    to    impress; 
And  when   his   songs   in   vain  he  played 

The  shamed  lute  breaks  in  pained  distress. 


•SKLKCTKD    LYRICS  1S7 

Such   is   the   lyre's   unhappy   tale 

But   of   the  bard's   career   who   knows? 
None  can  tell  when  misfortune's  gale 

Brought   his   long   suffering   to  a   close. 

Before   a  younger   race   he  stood. 

After  the  lapse  of  many  years: 
The  grizzled  locks  beneath  his  hood 

Had  scanty  grown  through  cares  and  fears. 

"A   few  small  pence  for  charity!" 

His  piteous,   faint  voice  then  demands, 

While,   like   a   sere    twig,   quiveringly 

He    stretches    forth    his    trembling    hands. 

Then   sympathetic  voices  ask: 

"Who  art  thou  thus  with  grief  bowed  down, 
Whom  fate  hath  set  so  hard  a  task 

And  on  whom  God  doth  seem  to  frown?" 

He   pleads   again   and   tells   his   name: 
"A  few  pence,"  when,  O,  strange  to  hear! 
The  answer  comes.  "Stop,  child  of  fame, 
Thou  dost  not  need  to  beg:  good  cheer!" 

"Thy   name    shines   brightly   as   by   night 
The  starry  heavens  glow  in  fire, 
The   songs   men   once   despised,   delight 
The  world   which   now  applauds  thy  lyre! 

"Hail  to  thee,  great  one;  haste  to  change 
Thy  rags  and  be  in  velvets   dressed. 

A    bounteous    board    we    shall   arrange, 
A  laurel  wreath  on  thee  shall  rest!" 

"I  thank  ye  for  this  speech  so  fair, 
But  hunger's  pangs  I   feel  no  more; 

For  velvet  garb   I   have  no  care. 

But  wear  these  rags  which  long  I  wore. 


188  ALEXANDER  PETOF1 

"A  goodly   thing   it   is  to   see 

The  laurel   wreath  a  proud  youth   crown; 
But  sprouts  and  leaves  can   no  more  be, 

When   sapless   trunks   are   crumbling  down. 

"But  still  a  few  pence  I  require, 
And  grateful  for  .them  I  shall  be; 

The  coffin-maker  waits  his  hire 
Who  fits  my  final  home  for  me!" 


INTO  THE  KITCHEN  DOOR  I  STROLLED. 

(Befordultam    a   konyhaba.) 


Into  the  kitchen  door  I   strolled. 
To  light  my  pipe  I  then  made  bold. 
That  is  to  say,  'twould  have  been  lit 
Had  there  not  been  full  fire  in  it. 

And,  since  my  pipe  was  lit,  I   went 
For   something  very   different. 
Simply   because   a   maiden   fair 
By  chance   I   had   espied  in  there. 

It  was  her  task  the  fire  to  light 
And'  sooth,  she  did  the  task  aright; 
But,  O.  my  heart!  Her  lovely  eyes 
Were  flaming  in  more  brilliant  wise. 

As  I  stepped  in  she  looked  at  me 
Bewitchingly,    bewilderingly — 
My  burning  pipe  went  out,  but.   O! 
My  sleeping  heart  burned  all  aglow. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  189 

LOVE  IS,  LOVE  IS  A  DARK  PIT 
(A  szerelem,  a  szerelem.) 


Love  is — Jove  is  but  a  dark  pit, 
Suddenly   I   fell  into   it; 
And   since   into  this  pit   I    fell, 
It  seems  I  live  beneath  a  spell  . 

I'm  set  to  watch  my  father's  sheep, 
I  might  as  well  be  fast  asleep. 
The   herd  now  roams  about  at  will, 
And  tramples  grain  on  vale  and  hill. 

With   careful   thought   my  mother   filled 
My  bag  with  food,  I  could  have  stilled 
My   hunger,  but  my  bag   I   lost; 
By   fasting,  now   I   pay  the   cost. 

Dear    father   and    dear  mother,   pray, 
Forgive  me  if  I   don't  obey. 
The  while  my  heart  with  love's  aglow, 
What   I   am  doing  I   don't  know. 


YOU   CANNOT   BID   THE   FLOWER. 
(A  viragnak  megtiltani  nem  lehet.) 


You  cannot  bid  the  flower  not  bloom;  it  thrives 
When,   on  mild   zephyrs'  wings,   the   spring  arrives. 
A  girl  is  spring,  her  love  a  scented  flower, 
Which    buds    and   blooms   'neath   balmy    air   and 

shower. 


190  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

When  first  I  saw  thee,  dear,  I  fell  in  love 
With  thy  fair  soul  the  tender  charm  thereof, 
With  that   soul's   beauty,   which   1    ever  see 
Reflected  in  thine  eyes  bewitchingly. 

The  question  rises  sometimes   in  my  breast — 
Shall  I,  or  others  by  thy  love  be  blessed? 
These  thoughts  pursue  each  other  in  my  mind, 
As  sun-rays'  clouds,  when  blows  the  autumn  wind. 

Knew  I   another  waited  thy  embrace, 
Could  kiss  the  milk  and  roses  of  thy  face, 
My  broken  heart  I  far  away  would  bear, 
Or  end  in  death  the  depth  of  my  despair. 

Shine  down  on  me,   O   star,  so  born  to  bless! 
And  light  the  dreary  night  of  my  distress! 
O  my  heart's  pearl!  if  thou  can'st  love  me,  love, 
And  blessing  shall  be  thine   from   God  above. 


AT  THE  CROSS-ROAD. 
(Keresztuton  allok.) 


To   the  crossroad    I    have   come, 
I  would  like  to  know: 

Is  it  East  or  is  it  Wfest 
That   I   ought  to  go? 

It  is  all  the  same  to  me, 
Go  I   here  or  go  I  not 

Anywhere    and    everywhere 
Sorrow   is  my  lot. 


SELECTED   LYRICS 

If  I   could   only  know  it  where 

Death   does   for  me   wait: 
The  road  to  choose  which  takes  me  there 

I   would  not  hesitate. 


MY  LITTLE  FLUTE. 
(Kis   furulyam.) 


My  little  flute  from  willow's  twig  I   made, 
The  weeping  tree  in  lonely  graveyard  swayed. 
1  carved  it  sitting  on  a  graveyard  stone, 
Are  you  amazed,  that  mournful  is  its  tone? 

And  there  my  own  star  set...  no  more  its  spark 
Shall  gleam  for  me  and  henceforth  all  is  dark. 
Is   it   then   strange,   that  sad   my  song's  refrain? 
E'en  my  desire  to  live  I  can't  sustain. 

And  when,  at  eve,  the  herd  strolls  slowly  home, 
I  feel  impelled  to  yonder  grave  to  roam... 
And  when  the  moon's  pale  face  doth  slowly  rise, 
My  flute  sends  forth  heartrending  songs  and  sighs. 

So  long  will  sorrow  hold  me  in  its  bane, 
So    long   will   broken-hearted   I    remain: 
Until   my   soul,   together   with   my   sighs, 
Into  a  better  world,  heavenward  flies. 

Heigh-ho!   Heigh!  with  sorrows  now  away! 
For   I   my  Violet   shall  see  to-day! 
And   even   though   I    blush,   I'll    rest 
.My  head  upon  her  virgin  breast. 


192  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I'D  LIKE  TO  SAY... 
(Elmondanam.) 


I'd  like  to  say:  "Stop,  pretty  maid, 

My  rose,  my  star!  Do  not  depart! 

What  God  endowed  me  with   I  give 

To  thee  sweet  girl:  a  feeling  heart." 

I'd  like  to  say:  "My  heart  's  a  sea, 

.     Rule  it  .at  will,  remember  though, 
Of  precious  gems  the  fairest  one — 
Loyalty's   pearl — is   found  below." 

I'd  like  to  say:  "This  gem  retains 
Fore'er  its   splendor  marvelous. 

I'd  say  all  this  and  more,  but  oh! 

There  is  no  one  I  could  speak  to  thus!" 


AT  THE  FUNERAL. 
(Temetesre  szol  az  enek.) 


At  the  funeral  sounds  the  dirge! 
Who  goes  now  with  dust  to  merge? 
No  more  an  earth-bound  captive  he, 
Happier  far  than  I  can  be! 

Here,  beneath  my  window  borne, 
How  many  over  him  do  mourn! 
Why   can   I    not  buried  be? 
No  one  then  would  weep  for  me! 


SELECTED   LYRICS  193 

MOURNFUL  IS  THE  DAY. 
(Bus  az  ido,  bus  vagyok  en  magam  is.) 


Mournful  is  the  day  and  mournful  I  have  grown, 
False  are  all  the  pretty  maidens  I  have  known. 
They  are  as  fickle  in  their  love, 
As  changeful  as  the  clouds  above. 
Lack-a-day. 

Dark  and  overcast  my  days  are:   I  know  why; 
For  the  maid  I  truly  loved  I  vainly  sigh. 
She   now   loves   another   lad, 
That's  the  reason  1  am  sad. 
Lack-a-day. 

Truly  orphaned,  none  so  poor  as  I  am  now. 
Never  to  her  my  true-  love  can  I  avow.  ' 

Not   fore'er  this   will   be   so: 
Brighter  days  will   dawn,   I  know. 
Lack-a-day. 


VOICES  FROM  EGER. 
(Egri   hangok.) 


Snow  on  the  earth,  clouds  in  the  sky! 

Who  cares?  Let  it  be  so. 
None   need   to  marvel,  for  this  is 

The   winter's   daily   show. 
And  by  my  faith,   I   could  not  tell 

When  winter  came. 
Did  not  a  glance  into  the  street 

The   fact  proclaim. 


194  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I  sit  here  in  this  cheerful  room 

With   faithful   friends   around, 
Who  fill  my  bowl  with  "egri"  wine. 

Such  as  but  here  is  found. 
The   friends    are    true,    the   wines    are   good; 

Who  would  have   more? 
I   now   enjoy  such   happy   days 

As   ne'er  before. 


If  my  contentment  had  but  seeds, 

I'd  sow  them  o'er  the  snow; 
A  rosy  bower  then  would  bloom 

And  in  the  winter  grow. 
And  if  to  heaven  I  then  might  cast 

Mjy   joyous   heart, 
To  all  the  world  it,  like  the  sun, 

Warmth   would   impart. 


Prom  here  the  mountain  1  can  see, 

Where  Dobo  once  his  name 
Inscribed   with  sword  and  Turkish  blood 

Uipon  the  page  of  fame. 
Ah!   until   such  man  as  he 

Again   we  see. 
Much  water  will  the  Danube  bear 

Into  the  sea. 


Ah!  long  is  withered  now  and  dead 

The  Magyar's  blooming  spring, 
And    apathy    inglorious 

Doth  to  the  nation  cling. 
Will   ever   spring   again   return 

Into   our   land? 
And  will  once  more  our  plains  and  fields 

In  growth  expand? 


SELECTED   LYRICS  195 

Tis  joyless   thought;   but   seldom   I 

Enjoy  a  feast  so  rare. 
So  let  us   not  our  pleasure  mar 

By  memories   fraught  with   care; 
And,   after  all,   do   sighs   abate  • 

Or   temper   grief? 
The  minstrel  'tis  alone  who  finds 

In  song  relief. 

Let  us  our  country's  cares  not  heed 

For  this  one  day  alone, 
And  each  sad  thought  of  her  let  us 

Now,  while  we  drink,  postpone. 
Fill   up   once   more!   Another  glass 

Of  glowing  wine 
And  still  one  more  to  follow  that 

None  should  decline. 

Well,   well!   What   do   I    notice   now? 

A   cycle   means    each   glass; 
My    mind    now    in    the    future    roams 

While  I  the  present  pass. 
And  in  this  future  I  once  more 

Again  rejoice, 
For  now  throughout  my  fatherland 

Rings  freedom's  voice. 


THE  MOONRAYS  LAVE... 
(Furdik   a   holdvilag  az   eg  tengereben.) 


The   moonrays  lave   in  th'  ocean's  mirrored   sky... 
Within  a  wood  an  outlaw  heaves  a  sigh. 
The  grass  around  not  so  much  dewdrop  shows 
As  from  the  eyes  of  that  robber  chief  flows. 


He  leans  upon  an  ax,  with  himself  he 
Communes  and  says:   "And  this  became  of  me! 
Sweet  mother  mine!  Why  did  I   not  obey 
The  teachings  which  you  gave  me  day  by  day! 

•  ~  .  f->i; 

I  left  your  roof,   I   am  a  fugitive, 
With   thieves   and  highway   robbers   I    now  live. 
Oh!  What  a  shame!  I  am  e'en  now  their  chief, 
The   unsuspecting  travelers   bring   to   grief. 

I'd  leave  this  life  and  with  my  comrades  break. 
Alas!  too  late  for  me  this  course  to  take. 
My  mother  's  dead...   the  old  home  desolate.,.. 
And  tumbling  down,...    for  me  the  gallows  wait." 


THE  BEST  LAID  PLANS... 
(Fiistbe  ment  terv.) 


On  going  home,  all  of  the  way 
I  am  in  deep  thought  lost, 

And   try   to   find   sweet  words  wherewith 
My  mother  to  accost. 

How  I   shall  greet  her  when  again 

In  the  arms  am   locked 
Of  her,  I  had  not  seen  for  years, 

Who   once   my   cradle   rocked. 

And  countless  beauteous   sentiments 

And   speeches    I    prepare, 
The  time  stood  still  it  seemed,  but  lo! 

I   reached  hoirre,-  ere-  aware. 

I  stepped  into  her  little  room, 

My  mother  flies  to  me: 
And  mute  I  hang  upon  her  lips, 

As  fruits  hang  on  a  tree. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  197 

THROUGH  THE  VILLAGE. 
(A  faluban  utcahosszat.) 


Through    the    village,    all    the    way, 
A  gipsy  band  for  me  doth  play: 
A   flask  or  wine  1   wave   in  glee, 
I    dance   in   maddest   revelry. 

"O   gipsy,   play   thy   saddest   airs. 
That    I    may   weep   away   my   cares; 
But   when   her   window    we    do    reach, 
Play  joyous    tunes,    I    thee   beseech. 

"The  maid  that  lives  there  is  my  star, 
The   star  that   shot   from   me   afar; 
She  left  me,  strives  from  me  to  hide, 
And    blooms    at    other   lovers'    side. 

"This   is   her   window.   Gipsy   play 
A   tune   which   is   surpassing  gay! 
Let  not  the  false  maid  hear  or  see 
That   I   can   feel   her   falsity!" 


MY  GRAVE. 
(Sirom.) 

When   I   am   dead;   above   my   grave 
No  monument  will   stand 

To  mark  where  lies  my  earthly  dust 
I  but  a  slab  demand. 

But  if  in  time  to  stone  should  turn 
My   soul's   unending  woe: 

Then  in  sad  truth  my  lowly  grave 
A   pyramid  will   grow. 


198  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

ON  AN  ASS  THE  SHEPHERD   RIDES. 
(Megy  a  juhasz  szamaron.) 


On  an  ass  the  shepherd  rides, 
And  his  feet  reach  to  the  ground; 

Great  his  stature,  but  more  great 
Is  his   sorrow   so  profound. 

On  the   sward  his   flute   he  played, 
With  his  browsing  flock  near  by, 

When   the   sudden   news   is   brought^ 
That  his  sweetheart  soon  must  die. 

Quick  he  mounts  his  ass  and  rides, 
Hastens  toward  her  home  in  fear; 

But,  alas!  too  late  he  comes — • 
Death  has  been  before  him  here. 

What  can  the  poor  fellow  do 
In  his  bitterness  and  woe, 

But  upon   his   donkey's  head 
Deal   a   heavy,   sounding  blow! 


THE  ALF5LD. 
(Az   Alfold.) 


Rugged  Carpathians,  what  is  to  me 

The  wild  romance  of  thy  pine  forests  old? 

With  admiration  I  can  view  thee  e'er, 

But  without  love;  nor  does  my  fancy  stray 

Aloft  to   thy   fair  mountain   vales.     But   there 

-Below,   in  Alfold's   sea-like   region,   there 

Is  my  own  world,  my  home!     My  eagle  soul 

Springs  from  its  prison  bonds,  when  I  behold 

The  bound'ry  of  my  plain.     And  so,  in  thought, 


SELECTED  LYRICS  199 

Upward   to   thee   1    fly,   amid   thy   clouds, 
When  smiles  upon  me  then,  the  image  fair 
Of  that  dear  plain,  from  Danube's  waters  spread 
Unto  the   Tisza's   distant   shore.     Tinkle 
Beneath  the  sky  of  the  mirage,  the  bells 
Of    Kis-Kunsag's    hundred    fat    herds,    at    noon; 
While  by  the  well  with  the  long  windlass,  waits 
The    double    trough,    and   galloping,    the   steed 
Snorts  in  the  wind,  and  stamps  the  ground.     The 

colts' 

Low  whining,  too,  is  heard,  and  of  the  lash 
The   cruel   sound.     There   waveth  in  the   field, 
Unto  the  gentle  breeze  the  green,  sweet  corn, 
Adorning  with   the   emerald's  glowing  tint, 
So  glorious,  the  place.     The  wild  ducks  come         <" 
In  the  ev'ning's  twilight,  from  the  neighboring  cane, 
Soaring  affright,   to   an   aerial  path, 
If  but  a  zephyr  sways  the  reeds.     Then  there 
Far  in  the  centre  of  the  plain,  lonely 
An  inn  is  standing,  with  its  chimney,  old 
And  crumbling,  where  the  thirsty  peasants  come 
For  goat's   milk,   as   they  journey  to   the   fair. 
Near  the  inn  is  the  dwarfed  poplar  wood, 
Yellow  is  the  sand  with  melons  rich; 
There  where  the  screaming  hawk  her  nest  doth 

build, 

Where,  undisturbed  by  children,  she  may  rest. 
There    grows   the    sad,    sad   "orphan's   hair"   and 

blossoms 

Blue,  of  buckthorn,  'bout  whose  cooling  stems 
The   parti-colored   lizards   wind   themselves 
To  rest  themselves  in  noonday  heat.     Beyond, 
Far,  far  away,  where  earth  and  heaven  meet 
The  summits,   blue  of  fruit  trees  dimly   rise, 
And  farther  still,  like  a  misty  column  pale. 
The  spire  of  some  distant  village  church  is  seen. 
O,  Alfold!  fair,  at  least  to  me;   for  here 
Was  rocked  my  cradle;  here,  too,  T  was  born. 
May  here  the  dark  pall   wrap  my  slumbering  form; 
In  this  dear  land,  I   fain  would  find  a  grave. 


200  ALEXANDER  PETCF1 

THE  EVENING. 
(Est.) 


The   daylight   wanes? 
And   quiet   reigns. 
'Mid  breezes  driven, 
Cloudlets   riven, 
The  moonlight  plays 
In  varied  rays, 
As  ruins  o'er 
Might   fancy    soar. 
The   city    wight 
Has  no   delight, 
Seek  in  the  field 
What  pleasures  yield 
The  eves. — All  gay 
Two  lovers  stray, 
Sing  on   their   way. 
Their  song  is  heard 
By  many  a  bird. 
From   forest's    shade 
To   lad  and  maid 
Comes  the  mournful  tale 

Of   the    nightingale 

From  the  garden  borne 
The   sound  of  horn, 
Where  the  herdsman  tends 
His    fire!   It   extends 
Far.  far  around 
And  then  the  sound 
Of  the  horn's  sad  note, 
In  the  air  cloth  float. 
While   all   around 
O'er  the  dewy  ground 
And  rich,  green  grass 
His  herd  doth  pass. 
Then  soft  the  gate 


SELECTED   LYRICS  201 

Is  opened,  elate 
The  herdsman   heeds 
The  sound,  and  speeds. 
Kiss   follows   kiss 
And  all   is   bliss! 
Who  went  there,  who? 
The  lover  true! 
How  blessed  ye  two! 
All   joyous    be! 
But   why   of  ye 
I  cannot  be? 


BRIGHT    STAR... 
(Fenyes  csillag.) 


Bright  shining  star.  pray,  tell  me  why 
Thou  did'st  not  stay  up  in  the  sky? 

The  reason   I   would  like  to  know, 
Why  from  heaven   thou  sped  below. 

"For  one  thing  I"  fled  from  above: 
I   looked   upon   thy  sweetheart  love, 

Her   eyes   shone   brighter   than   did   I, 
And  angrily  I   left  the  sky." 


202  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

HAPPY  NIGHT. 
(Boldog  ejjel.) 


Happy  night-time,  I  am  with  my  darling  rose 
In  the  garden  to  each  other  nestle  close; 
Quiet's  all;  the   dogs  but  bark  somewhere,  afar. 
Within  the   sky 
Like   fairies  hie, 
Bright  moon  and  star. 

I   would  not  a  good  star  have  become,   I  know, 
I'd  be  not  content  within  the   sky  to  glow. 
All  the  beauteous  heaven  is  but  naught  for  me. 
And  from  the  height 
I'd  come  each  night, 
Dear  rose,  to  thee! 


HOW  VAST  THIS  WORLD! 
(Ez  a  vilag  a  milyen  nagy.) 


How  vast  this  world  in  which  we  move, 
And  thou,  how  small  thou  art,  my  dove! 
But  if  thou  didst  belong  to  me 
The  world  I  would  not  take  for  thee. 

Thou  art  the  sun,  but  I  the  night, 
Full  of  deep  gloom,  deprived  of  light. 
But   should  our  hearts  together  meet, 
A  glorious  dawn  my  life  -would  greet. 

Ah!  look  not  on  me;  close  thine  eyes; 
My    soul   beneath    thy   glances    dies; 
Yet,   since   thou   can'st  not  love   me,   dear, 
Let  my  bereaved  soul  perish  here. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  203 

TWO   BROTHERS. 
(Ket  testver.) 


A  comrade  1   possess  of  sterling  worth, 
Honest  and  true  he  is   from  head   to  heel. 
When  sorrow's  chill  and  windy  blasts  I  feel 

He  will  around  me  fold  the  cloak  of  mirth. 

If  I,  my  country's  fate  considering, 

Am  sad,  depressed  and  almost  moved  to  tears. 

My    dear    companion    forthwith    then    appears, 
Saying,   "Cheer   up,   this  is  no  manly  thing!" 

"Be  patient  now,"  he  whispers,  "rouse,  dear  friend, 
A  better  fate  will  come,  and,  once  again, 
Will  heaven's  good  graces  and  good  will  attain 

It  yet  will  help  our  poor  forsaken  land." 

If  hopeless  love  has  made  me   sore  at  heart 
And    resignation    holds    me    grieved   and    dumb, 
My  friend  then  tarries  not,  but  soon  doth  come 

Saying:   "Be  of  good  cheer;   a  child  thou  art. 

"Loose  not  thy  faith;"  such  is  his  soothing  way — 
"Although  is  seems  that  she,  on  whom  was  spent 
Love's  capital,  is  quite  indifferent, 

She  will  all  this  with  interest  repay." 

This  train  of  thought  leads  me  to  think,  alas! 

That  I  so  poor,  so  impecunious  am; 

Again  I   hear  the  cheering  epigram: 
"This  hopeless  state  of  things  thou  wilt  see  pass." 

"Be  patient,  friend;  the  time  will  soon  arrive 
When  thou  cold  rooms  no  more  will  occupy; 
And   when   frost's  crystal   flowers   shall   beautify 

Thy  window-panes,  and  there  on  them  shall  thrive." 


204  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Thus   flows   my   dear   companion's   cheering   speech 
Till  I  forget  my  sorrow  and  my  care; 
And  all   around   me   groweth   bright   and   fair; 

My  soul  hath  landed  on  a  happy  beach; 

This  friend  whom  I  am  ever  glad  to  meet, 
A  haughty  brother  has,  with  laugh  and  sneer 
For  my  companion's  way  of  giving  cheer, 

Whom  he  delights  most  shamefully  to  beat. 

This  brother  is  a  stern  and  churlish  man; 

He  drives  my  friend  away  and  smites  his  face. 

Yet  can  no  usage  ill  his  love   efface; 
He  will   return  again  whene'er  he  can. 

And  must  I   tell  you  who  this  friend  may  be, 
Whom  to  possess  is  now  my  happy  lot? 
"Hope"  is  his  name.     Who  knows  and  loves  him 

not? 

His  sterner  brother  is  "Reality.'' 


ITS  RAINING. 
(Esik,   esik,  esik.) 

It's   raining,   raining,   raining! 

A  kiss-shower   it   is, 
And  my  lips  enjoy  it, 

Each   loving  kiss   a   bliss. 

The  torrent  brings  a  vivid 
And  shooting  flash  of  light, 

The  lightning  shoots,  the  rays 
Of  your  two  eyes   so  bright. 

I  hear  the  thunder  rolling, 
Rolls  like  a  heavy  gun; 

Good-bye,  my  darling  girl: 
Thy  mother  comes — I  run! 


SELECTED   LYRICS  2(>5 

DRUNK   FOR   THE   COUNTRY S   SAKE. 
(Reszegseg  a  hazaert.) 


God   bless  you,   boys!   Come,   drink   again 
Let  us  this  jovial  glass  fill   high! 
Pray  let  me  not  my  country   see, 
Forsaken  and  in  misery, 
Far   rather   drunk   in   dreams   I'd  lie. 

For  then   1   dream  that  once  again 
At  home  the  voice  of  cheer  1   hear, 
It   seems   to   me   that   with    each   round 
Of  joyous  drink  I  heal  a  wound 
Thou   sufferest  from,  my  country  dear. 

If  it  could  be  while   I   lie  here 
My   country  truly   happy   were — 

You  never  should,  good  friends,  I  say, 
Even   if   I   might  live  for  aye. 
Behold  me  sober  more,  I  swear! 


THE  LEAF  IS  FALLING. 
(Hull  a  level...) 


The   leaf  is  .falling   from   the   bough; 

Darling   sweetheart,   I   must  go! 
Fare  thee  well,  my   sweet  one, 
Fare   thee    well,   my    dear    one. 
Pretty   little  dove! 


)6  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

How  yellow  is  the  moon  on  high,, 

Just  as  pale  art  thou  and  I. 
Fare  thee  well,  my  sweet  one, 
Fare   thee   well,    my   dear   one, 
Pretty  little  dove! 

The   dew-drops   fall   on   branches   dry, 
Hot  tears  roll  from  thine  and  mine  eye. 
Fare  thee  well,  my  sweet  one, 
Fare   thee   well,   my   dear   one, 
Pretty  little  dove! 

The  rose  may  bloom  yet  on  the  tree, 
We  two  each  other  may  yet  see. 
Fare  thee  well,  my  sweet  one, 
Fare   thee   well,   my   dear   one, 
Pretty  little  dove! 


THE  FOREST  HOME. 
(Az  erdei  lak.) 


Just  as  the  heart  its  primal  secret  holds, 
A  cottage   small   the  circling  hills   conceal; 

If  raging  tempests  bear   it  down   the  vale. 

The  frail  and   straw-thatched  roof  no  harm   doth 

feel. 

'Xeath  foliage  dense  of  whispering  forests  cool, 
This  straw-thatched  roof  doth  nestle  in  the  shade, 

While  on  the  trees  the  prping  bullfinch  swings, 
The   wild   dove   coos   and   sighs   throughout  the 

glade. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  207 

And  as  hunted  chamois,  swift  doth  run 
A  little  brook  down  from  the  hills  above; 

Like  maidens  coy,  who  in  smooth  water  gaze, 
Fair  flo\\  ers   bloom   on   either   side   thereof. 

Unto   these   flower-maidens   gallants   come; 

With  ardent  passion  do  the  wild  bees  haste, 
Enjoy — yet  in  the  stream  how  many  fall, 

Intoxicated  with  the  love  they  taste! 

The  sun  and  zephyr  pity  as  they  see; 

The  kind  breeze  bears  a  loose  leaf  from  on  high, 
And   when  the  lover-bee  has  gained  his  raft, 

The  sun  with  gracious  ray  his  wings  doth  dry. 

The    she  -goat,  over   on  the   mountain's   brow, 
With   udder  full  and  sportive  kids  goes  round; 

From  her  and  from  the  wild  bees'  golden  store 
All  that   the   cottage   table   needs   is   found. 

The  piping  bullfinch  and  the   plaintive  dove. 
They  fear  no  traps  by  any  dweller  there; 

Those  who  inhabit  scenes  like  this,  know  well 
How  sveet  and  glad  is  Liberty's  pure  air. 

No   serfdom   here;    no   tyranny   there   is 

To  give  command  with  harsh  and  thunderous 

word; 

Only,  at  times,  the  heaven's  artillery  loud. 
Reminding   people   to   fear   God,  is   heard. 

And  God  is  good;  lie  is  not  wroth  for  long; 

Since    when    the    ominous    clouds    their    ire    have 

spent. 
He   smiles   forth   in  forgiveness  once  again 

In  the   arched  rainbow  where  all   hues  are  blent. 


208  ALEXANDER  PETOFl 

THE  GOOD   OLD  LANDLORD. 
(A  jo  oreg  korcsmaros.) 


Here,  in  the  lowland,  where  you  travel  far  away, 
Before  you  reach  the  hills;  here,  on  the  Alf old's 

plain, 

Contented  now  I  dwell,  my  heart  is  glad  and  gay, 
Because,  while  roaming  round,  I  joy  and  pleasures 

gain. 

My  home  is  in  the  quiet  village  public-house; 

But  seldom  sounds  therein  the  noise  of  wild  carouse. 

A  hearty,  good  old  man  is  landlord  of  the  place. 

Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  the  bliss  of  happy  days. 

My  room  is  neat  and  clean,  therefor  I  do  not  pay: 
Xe'er  have  I  been  as  here,  cared  for  so  tenderly! 

My  meals  are  timely  served  though  others  be  away, 
But,  if  I  should  be  late,  they  all  will  wait  for  me. 

One  thing  I  do  not  like,  the  master  of  the  house 

Quarels   once   in   a  while   with  his   good-hearted 

spouse. 

But  what  of  that?  Soon  kindness  reillumes  his  face. 

Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  the  bliss  of  happy  days. 

Somethimes,  to  pass  the  time,  we  former  days  recall, 
Which  were  for"  him,  by  far,  the  happiest  and  the 

best. 

He  owed  his  house  and  farm,  had  plentiful  of  all. 

He  knew  not  e'en  how  many  cattle  .he  possessed. 

Knaves  borrowed  all  his  gold  and  fraudulently  kept; 

The  Danube's  stormy  floods  once  o'er  his  homestead 

swept, 
And  thus  they  grew  so  poor,  the  landlord  and  his 

race. 
Grant  unto  him,  my   God,  -the  bliss  of  happy  days. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  209 

For   him   the    su.i   .,f   life   is   now   about   to  set, 
And  aged  men  may  wish  to  have  at  last  some  rest. 

Alas,  misfortune  has,   1   notice  with  regret, 

Left  him  oppressed  with  care,  with  sorrow  filled 

his  breast; 

All  day  he  works,  the  Sunday  e'en  is  not  his  own; 

Late  he  'retires  te  bed,  and  rises  with  the  dawn. 

Filled   with   compassion,   him    I    tenderly   embrace. 

Grant  unto  him,  my   God,  the  bliss  of  happy  days. 

I   often  .beg  of  him  to  be  of  better  cheer, 

Say    better    times    will    come,    ending    his    misery; 

"Ay,   ay,   it   will   be   so."   he    says   "my   end   is   near, 
And,  when  the  grave   receives  me,  1   shall  happy 

be." 

This   answer  fills   my   heart   with   sorrow   and   with 

grief; 

Falling  upon  his  breast,  1   find  in  tears  relief. 

My  dear  old  father  is  the  landlord  of  this  place, 

Grant  unto  him.  my  God,  the  bliss  of  happy  days. 


THE  MAGYAR  NOBLE. 
(A  magyar  nemes.) 


The  sword  which  once  my  fathers  bore, 
Hangs  on  the  wall  and  gleams  no  more, 
Rust   covers  it  instead   of  gore. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

I   never  work  and   never  will, 
The   thought   of  labor  makes   me   ill; 
Peasant,  'tis  thou  the  earth  must  till. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 


210  ALEXANDER  PETOFI  . 

Peasant,  make  good  the  road.  I   say, 
Thy  horse  doth  draw  the  load  that  way, 
But  go  afoot   I    never  may. 

I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

Wherefore   should  I   for  science   care? 
The    sages    always    paupers    were. 
I   never  read   or  write — I    swear! — 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

One  talent   I   possess  complete, 
Wherein    none    can    with    me    compete: 
That   I    right  well   can   drink  and   eat. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

I   never  pay  my  tax  when  due; 
Wealth  have  I,  but  not  much,   'tis   true. 
What  do   I   owe?   I    never  knew. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

The   country's   cares  are   naught  to  me; 
I  heed  not  all  its  misery. 
Soon  they  will   pass  by  fate's   decree. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

My  ancient  rights  and  home  decay, 
And  when  I've  smoked  my  life  away, 
Angels  shall  bear  me  up  some  day. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

.       FAIR  MAIDEN  OF  A  VILLAGE  FAIR. 
(Szep  videknek  szepseges  leanya.) 


Fair  maiden  of  the  village  fair, 
How  love  I  thy  resplendent  eyes! 

Resplendent?  No;  the  phrase  is  weak, 
And  all  mv  warm  intent  belies. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  211 

How  often  have  I  written,  said: 
That  1  have  seen  a  pure  blue  sky; 

Yet  false  it  was,  none  such  I  saw 
Until  I  gazed  into  thine  eye. 

Didst  thou  not  mark  my  raptured  gaze, 
With   what   devotion   on   thine   eyes 

I   hung,  as  on  the  crucifix, 

Enrapt,  doth  hang  the   saint  that  dies! 

And   thou    couldst   my   redeemer  be 
In  truth,  yet  have  no  need  to  die; 

My  ardent  breast  thou  wouldst  embrace, 
Nor   on  a   pulseless   body   lie. 

What   folly  is  it  that  I   say? 

Love   I   ne'er  can  have  from  thee! 
Where  is  the  maid  her  love  would  give 

Unto  a  poet,  poor,   like  me? 

For  God  hath  made  the  poet  poor; 

And  this  is  fit,  for,  mark  my  words, 
No   plumage,   many   hued   and  gray, 

Bedecks    the    sweetest    singing   birds. 

How   can   the   simple  poet,   then, 
Expect  a  maiden's  heart  to  gain? 

Maids  justly  love  to  shine  down  here; 
As  stars  of  earth  they  wish  to  reign. 

Thou,   little   sweetheart,   art  my   star 
And  none  can  say  me  nay  that  I, 

Who  may  not  wear  thee  on  my  breast, 
Shall  yet  pursue   thee  with  my  eye. 

I   with  mine  eyes  shall  follow  thee; 

Through    life    I    will   pursue   afar; 
And  if  from  thence  thou  send'st  no  warmth 

At  least  look  down  on  me,  my  star. 


213  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

BARGAIN. 
(Alku.) 


"Come,  shepherd  boy,  poor  shepherd  boy,  give  ear, 
Behold  this  heavy  purse  with  gold  filled  here; 
Thy  poverty  I'll  purchase  now  from  thee, 
If  you,  with  it,  thy  love  will  give  to  me." 

"If  but  an  earnest  were  this  glittering  gold, 
Thy   proffer   magnified   an   hundredfold — 
Nay,  if  the  world  on   top  thou  shouldest  lay — 
My  pretty  one  thou  could'st  not  take  away!" 


MY   LOVE. 
(Szaz  alakba. . .) 


An  hundred  forms  my  love  at  times  doth  take, 
And  in  an  hundred  shapes  appears  to  me; 

Sometime  an  isle  around  which  billows  break, 
The  seas — my  passions  that  encircle  thee. 

And  then  again,   sweet  love,  thou  art   a   shrine; 

So  that   I   think  my  love  luxuriant  falls, 
Like  leafy  bowers,  verdant  and  benign, 

Around  the  church's  consecrated  walls. 

Sometimes  thou  art  a  traveler,  rich  and  great, 
And,  like  a  brigand,  on  thee  breaks  my  love; 

Again  it  meets  thee  in  a  beggar's  state 

And,  suppliant,  asks  thee  for  the  alms  thereof. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  213 

Or  thou  art  as  the  high   Carpathian  hills, 

And  I  the  thunderous  cloud  that  shakes  thy  heart; 

Or  thou  the  rosebush  round  whose  fragrance  thrills 
The   nightingale,    of   which    I    play   the   part. 

Thus  my  love  varies,  but  doth  never  cease; 

It   still   remains   imperishable  and   sure; 
Its  strength  abides,  but  with  a  greater  peace; 

Oft  calm,  and  yet  with  depths  that  will  endure. 


STREAMLET  AND   STREAM. 
(Forras  es  folyam.) 

The   streamlet's   waves    roll   on   in   gleeful   ways; 
Their  merry   splash   is   as  a   silvery   voice, 
In   such   a  tuneful  current   did  rejoice 

The  mellow  acccents  of  my  youthful  days. 

My  soul  was  then  a  streamlet,  pure  and  clear, 
A  mirror  of  the  laughing  sky  above; 
Sun,  moon  and  star  in  this  sky  was  my  love; 

The  lively  fish,  my  joyous  heart,  leaped  here. 

The    streamlet   has   become    a  swollen    stream 
Its  whispers,  silver  clear,  are  heard  no  more: 
And  o'er  the   storm  is  heard  its  mighty  roar; 

And  overcast  is  now  the  heaven's  bright  gleam. 

Bright  sun,  look  not  upon  the  stream  just  now; 
Thou  wilt  not  see  in  it  thy  shining  face: 
The  struggles  of  the  storm  its  waves  displace; 

Upheave   its   waters  from   the   depths  below. 

What  do  the  stains  upon  the  waters  mean — 
The  bloody  stain,   shown  by   the   angry   sea? 
The    wide    world    cast    its    anchor   into    thee; 

My   blood— blood    of   my    heart— is   now    here   seen! 


214        ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

MY  FATHERLAND. 
(A  hazarol.) 


The  sun  has  set,  but  stars  did  not 
Shine  brightly  in  the  sky  above. 

Nowhere  a  light,  my  midnight  oil 
Burns  and  my  patriotic  love. 

The  love  of  home's  a  .beauteous  star, 
In   comely  splendor   does  it   shine. 

Poor   fatherland,   poor   fatherland, 

But  few  of  such  bright  stars  are  thine! 

My  oillamp's  light  is   fluttering 

And   flickers.     Why   quivers   the   flame? 

The  midnight  struck.     Might  not  the  ghosts 
Of  my  ancestors  fan  the  same? 

Not  to  ancestors  look,  Magyar, 

They  are  like  coursing  suns  on  high. 

You  must  not  look  into  the  sun, 

The  bright  light  but  blindens  your  eye. 

Ye  glorious   forefathers   ours! 

Whose  rising  once  shook  all  the  earth, 
On   crumbling   Europe's  forehead,  who 

Inscribed  your  own,  your  nation's  worth! 

Yea.   great   were   you,    Magyar,    one   day, 
And  lands  and  power  you  possessed; 

In   Magyar  seas  were  lost  the  stars 
A-f ailing  north  and   east  and   west! 

It  is  so  long,  that  laurel  wreaths, 
Dear   Magyarland,   adorned   you, 

That  fancy, — though  a  swift-winged  eagle, — 
Grew  weary  ere  so  far  back  flew. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  215 

That  laurel  wreath  upon  your  crown 

Hath  dried  so  long  ago,  it  seems 
To  be  a  legendary  myth, 

Or  has  been  seen  but  in  our  dreams. 

Since  long  1   have  not  wept,  but  now 
My   eyes  are  filled  with  tears  anew. 

Tell  me,  my  Magyarland,  is  this 

Your  morning's  dawn,  your  sunset's  dew? 

My  nation's  glory,  what  were  yon? 

A   shooting   star,   that   shone   on   high, 
Then  fell  with  sudden  sweep  and  lost 

Forever  is  to  human  eye? 

Or,  glory  of  the  Magyar,  are 

A  comet  you,  which  comes  and  gpes, 

And  which   in   future  centuries 

Returns,  the  world  to  hold  in  throes? 


OH,  JUDGE  ME  NOT. 
(Meg  ne  itelj.  . .) 


O,  judge  me  not,  fair  maid,  I  pray; 

Not   from   our   first   and   sole   salute; 
Not  always  is  my  tongue,  as  then 

So   ill-behaved,   so   dumb  and  mute. 

Oft  floweth  from  my  lips  a  stream 
Of   cheerful    speech,   and   often    floats 

Humor   or   jesting   o'er   its   waves, 
Like  merry  folks  in   pleasure  boats. 


216  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

But   when   I    saw  thee   first   T   tried 
Some  word  to  say,  and  tried  in  vain; 

Before  a   storm   breaks   out   all   round 
A  graveyard  quietude  will  reign. 

A   storm  came  up  here  in  my  breast; 

1    speechless    stood,    charmed   by    a    spell 
The   storm   broke  out.  'mid  thunderings 

The   lightnings  of   my   wild   love   fell. 

How    the    tornado    rends,    destroys! 

But    I    shall    suffer    patiently. 
For  when  I   once  thy  love   shall   gain 

The  rainbow  of  my   soul   I'll   see. 


IF   GOD... 

(Ha  az  Isten. . .) 


If  God  Almighty  thus  did  speak  to  me: 

"My  son,  I  grant  permission  unto  thee 

To  have  thy   Death  as  thou   thyself  shalt   say;" 

Thus   unto  my   Creator   1    would   pray: 

''Let  it   be   autumn,   when   the   zephyrs   sway 
The  sere  leaves  wherewith  mellow  sunbeams  play; 
And  let  me  hear  once  more  the  sad,  sweet  song 
Of  errant  birds,  that  will  be  missed  ere  long. 

"And   unperceived,   as  winter's   chilling  breath 
Wafting   oe'r  autumn   bearing   subtle   Death 
Thus  let  Death   come;  most  welcome  will   he   be 
If   I   observe  him   when   he's  clo«e   to  me. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  217 

"Like  to  the  birds,  again  1   will  uutpuur 

A   mellower  tune  than  e'er   I   sang  before, 

A  song  which  moves  the  heart,  makes  dim  the  eyes 

And    mounts    up    swelling    to    tin-    very    skies. 

"And,    as    my    swan    song   draweth    to   its    end, 
My   sweetheart   fair  and   true   may   o'er  me   bend; 
Thus   would    I    die,  caressing  her  fair  face, 
Kissing   the   one   on    earth    who   holds   most   grace. 

"But  if  the  Lord  this  boom   should  disallow, 
With   spring,  of  war   let    Him   the  land   endow; 
When    the    rose-blooms    that    color    earth    again 
Are    blood-red    roses    in    the    breasts   of   men. 

"May    nightingales    of    war — the    trumpets — thrill 
Men's    souls,   and    with    heroic   passion    fill; 
May    I    be   there,   and   where   the   bullets   shower 
O,    let    my   heart    put    forth    a    deadly   flower. 

"Falling   beneath    the    horse'?    iron    heel. 
Here  also  may  a  kiss   my  pale  lips  seal; 
Thus    would    I    die    while    1    Thy    kiss    obtain. 
Liberty,    who    'mid    beavenly    hosts    dost    reign!" 


I'D  BE  A  TREE.. 
(Fa  lennek,  ha.. .) 


I'd  be  a  tree  wert  thou  the  blossom  of  a  tree, 
If  thou  a  dewdrop  art,  a  flower  I  would  be, 
I'd  be  a  dewdrop   if  the  ray  of  sun  thou  art,.. 
Our  beings,  thus  united,  would  never,  never  part. 

Wert4hou.  my  pretty  little  girl,  the  heaven  on  high 
1    gladly   would   become   a   star   within   the    sky. 
Wert   thou,   my  pretty  little  girl,  the   devil   in  hell 
Te  be  with  thee  for  e'er,  e'en  there  I'd  gladly  dwell. 


218  ALEXANDER   PETOFI 

THE  RUINS  OF  THE  INN. 
(A  csarda  romjai.) 


Oh,  beauteous,  boundless  strength  of  lowland  plain, 

My  glad  heart's  pleasure   ground  dost  still  remain, 

With  hills  and  vales,  the  broken  highland  seems 

A  volume   that   with   pictured   pages   teems; 

But   thou,   where   hill    succeeds   not   hill,   my   plain 

Art   like   an    open   page,    whereof    I    gain 

The   knowledge   at  a   glance,   and   over  thee 

The   loftiest   thoughts   are   written   legibly. 

'Tis  sad;  I  cannot  pass  by  happy  chance 

My  life  upon  the  puszta's  wide  expanse. 

Here  would  I   dwell  amid  these  valleylands, 

As   the   free    Bedouin   on   Arabian   sands. 

Puszta,  thou  art  the  type  of  liberty; 

And,   liberty,   thou   art   as   God   to   me! 

For   thee,   my   Deity,   alone   I   live, 

That   once    for   thee   my   life-blood   I    may   give; 

And,  by  my  grave,   when   I   for  thee  have   died, 

My  cursed  life  shall  then  be  sanctified. 

But  what  is  this, — grave,   death,   what  do  I   write? 

But  marvel  not,  for  ruins  meet  my  sight; 

Not  ruins  of  a  fort,  but  of  an  inn; 

Time  asks  not  to  what  end  the  house  hath  been; 

A  fortress,  or  a  tavern,  'tis  the  same; 

He  treads  o'er  both  alike,  and  when  he  came, 

Walls    tottered,    crumbling,    iron    e'en    as    stone, 

And   nothing,   high    or  low,   he   leaves   alone. 

Of  stone  how  came  they  this  old  inn  to  rear, 
When  all  the  lowland  shows  no  quarry  near? 
A  town   or   hamlet,   nestled   here   at   first, 
Long  ere  the  Turkish  rule  our  land  had  cursed. 
Poor    Hungary,    my    wretched   land;    ah    me;    • 
How   many  yokes   have   been    endured   by   thee! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  219 

This  ancient  town   was  sacked  by  Osman's  hordes, 

Who  razed  each  house  therein,  exept  the  Lord's. 

The  church  remained,  a  ruin,  it  is  true, 

Still  of  our  loss  a  mourner  left  to  view. 

For   centuries    it    stood    thus;   stood   to   mourn; 

Until   at  last,   by   sorrow   overborne, 

It  fell,  and,   lest  its  stones  should  scattered  be, 

They  built   the  wayside  inn  which   here  you  see, — 

From  God's  house  build  an  inn!  and  wherefore  nay? 

One   serves  the  body,   one  the   soul,   I   say! 

Each   in  our  being  has  an   equal  share; 

On   each  we  must  attend   with   dutious  care. 

From  God's  house  build  an  inn,  and  wherefore  nay? 

Our  life  can  please  our  God  in  either  way, 

And   purer   hearts   within   an    inn    I've   known, 

Than  some  who  daily  kneel  before  God's  throne. 

Inn,  fallen  inn,  when  yet  within  thy  door 

The   travellers    rested   and    enjoyed    thy   store, 

My  phantasy  builds   up   thy  wall   anew, 

And  one  by  one  thy  transient  guests  I  view; 

The   wandering  journeyman   with   staff  is   here; 

The   puszta's   son  in  greasy   cloack  stands  near, 

There,   with   his   long  beard,   is   a  peddling,  Jew, 

The   roving   Slovak   tinker,   with   a   few 

Who    drink;   the   smiling   hostess,   young  and   fair, 

Flirts   with   a   merry   student   debonair; 

The  wine  has  made  his  head  a  little  light. 

His   heart   more   loving  to  the  hostess  bright, 

The  aged  host!  in  rage  why  starts  he  not? 

He   calmly   sleeps  beside  the  stack,  I   wot! 

Then,  'neath  the  haystack's  shade,  now,  in  the  tomb, 

Where,  too,  his  fair  young  wife  had  long  found  room 

All  have  returned,  long  years  since,  dust  to  dust; 

The  inn  hath  fallen  a  prey  to  age's  rust.  _ 

The   wind  the   covering  from  Its  head  did  tear; 

The  roof,  whereof  dismantled,  it  stands  bare, 

As   though   its   master,   time,   it   stood   before, 

And  prayed  for  better  usage  than  of  yore. 

In  vain  the  suppliant  prays,  day  after  day; 

Crumbling,   it   falls,   until   one  cannot  say 


220  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Where    was    the    doorway,    or   the    window    where; 

It  was  the  dead's  last  hope  before  it   fell; 

The   cellar   is   a   ruin;   there   is   the   well, 

Whose  hoist,  one  day,  some  passing  vagrant  stole> 

Leaving   behind   the   crossbeam   and   the   pole, 

On    which   a   royal   eagle   came   to   light, 

Because    the   puszta    yields    no    loftier   height; 

Behold  his  look  and  mien,  so  full  of  pride; 

His    memories    seem   with    ages   gone   to   bide. 

The   sun,   that  heavenly  lover,   flames   above; 

He  burns,   because   his  heart   is   filled   with  love 

For  "Delibab"  the  puszta's   fairy   child. 

Whose   fond    eyes   gaze   at    him   in   yearnings   wild. 


MY    DREAMS. 
(Almaim.) 


Somtimes  ill  dreams  will  haunt  my  sleep. 
Like    those    which    came    to    me    last    night; 

For   hardly   one   had  time   to   p.a.-s 
Before   another   did   affright. 

Sin's  heroes  I  in  purple  saw; 

On   virtue    crushed   their   feet    did    tread; — 
A    ghastly    footstool,    red    and    white, 

Whose    eyes    shed  tears,    whose   heart-veins   bled. 

I    saw  gaunt   faces,   worn   and   serene. 

And  yellow  as  the  moon  at  night; 
Each   phantom  face   so   ghastly   seemed, 

Like   to    a   wraithly   weird   moonlight. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  221 

Around    them  joyous   faces   were, 

On  which  the  sun  of  comfort  shone; 

And   yellow   as   each   starveling   face 
The  golden   spurs  their  heel  had  on. 

A   man   1    saw  upon  his  bier, 

A    deep   wound  just   above  his   heart! 

His   own   son    killed   him!    And   his   wife — 
Does   she   now   play  the  mourner's   part? 

His  wife!  Ah,  nay;  she  does  not  weep; 

While   he   lies   near  in   dreamlessness, 
She,    in   a   close,   adjoining   room, 

Receives    her   lover's    fond    caress! 

Then,  as  he  lies  within  his  tomb, 

His    relatives — a    hungry    crowd — 
Come,   and   his  grave-vault  open   break 

And   rob  him   of  his   funeral   shroud! 

I    saw   forsaken,   desert  lands, 
Where   public  \irtue   seemed  as  dead; 

Where    night    did    reign,   where   dawn    was   near. 
On   herdsmen's  swords  a  sanguine  red. 

I    looked   on   fallen   states   enslaved, 

Where  .bondsmen's    shrieks   one    could    not    hear; 
Because   their   plaints   and   groans  were   killed 

By  tyrants'  laughter  in  the  ear. 

Such    dreams,    indeed,    are    nightly    mine;— 

Small  marvel  that  it  should  be  so! 
For    what   in   visions   I    divine 

The   world  doth,   and   the  world  will  know! 

How    long  will   this   dread   world   endure? 

Why    is    that    heavenly    force    so    slow— 
Thou   comet   long   ordained — this  earth 

From   its    set   axis   to   o'erthrow? 


222  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

CURSE  AND    BLESSING. 
(Atok  es  aldas.) 


Accursed   the   earth   where   once 

Grew  into  strength   the  tree, 
Of  which  the  timber  gave 

A  cradle  for  poor  me! 
Accursed  be,  too,   the  hand 

Which  planted  it,  1   say; 
Accursed  also  the   nursing 

Dewdrops,    the    rain    and    ray. 

But  blessed   be   the    earth   where   grows 

The  tree  in  woodland  shade, 
Of  which  my  coffin  will, 

In  course  of  time,  be  made. 
And  blessed  be,  too,  the  hand 

Which  planted  it;  and  blessed 
Also   the   rain  and  ray 

Which  it  with  life  invest. 


SWEET  JOY. 
(fides  orom  ittalak  mar.) 


Sweet  joy,  I  oft  have  drank  of  thee; 
What  of  the  glass  became,  tell  me? 
It  broke,  the  goblet  which  I   drained, 
And  broken  glass   alone   remained. 

And,  bitter  grief,   I   drank  of  thee; 
What  of  the  goblet  came  to  be? 
It  cracked,  the  tumbler  which  I   drained. 
And    broken    glass    alone    remained. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  223 

The   radiant   sun  the  heart   enjoys; 
The  darkling  storm-cloud  but  annoys; 
Grief  is  the  heart's  dark  cloud,  I  say, 
Which   rising  winds   bear  far  away. 

I  like  a  shadow  am;  as  though 
About   a   graveyard   1    do  .go, 
O,    days    departed,   days   gone   by, 
Ye  are  the  graveyard  where  I  sigh! 

And  through  this  graveyard  in  the  night 
A   firefly   is   my   guiding   light; 
And  o'er  the  graves  of  my  dead  days 
My  memory  like  a  firefly  plays. 

The  air  with  motion  now  is  fraught; 
A  cool,  faint   breeze   is  o'er  me  brought; 
And  whisperingly  it  asks 'of  me, 
Is   it   not   better  not   to   be? 


THE  MANIAC. 
(Az  oriilt.) 


Why  bother  me?  Away! 
Be  quickly  off,  I  say! 
Great   work   I   have   on   hand  just  now, 
I   twist  a  whip  with  sweating  brow, 
From  rays  of  sun,  with  which  I  will 
Scourge  the  world  till  its  anguish  fill 
The  air,  and  I   will  laugh  as  she 
Laughed,  mocking  at  my  misery. 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 


224  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

P"or  such  is  life!  We  laugh  and  weep 
Till   death  brings  its  eternal  sleep. 
1,  too,  was  dead;   some  years  ago 
To  poison  me  were  mean  and  low; 
Those  of  my  friends  who   drank  my   wine, 
What  did  they  do?     Who  can  divine? 
While    I    was   lying   in   the   shroud, 
Embracing   me,    they    cried    aloud! 
I  felt  that  1  could  rise  and  bite 
Their  .noses   off,   but  just   for   spite 
I   thought   let  them  their  nostrils  keep; 
When   I   become  a  rotten  heap 
And,    decomposed,    lie    in   their    way, 
From    smelling    me    explode    they    may! 
Ha,  ha,   ha! 

Where  did  they  bury  me? 
In   Africa's   sandy    sea, 
This  was  most  fortunate,  for,  lo! 
Hyena   dug  me   from   below; 
My   only   benefactor   he, 
I  cheated  him  most  skilfully; 
My   limbs   he   tried  to   chew  and   gnaw; 
I    flung  my  heart  into  his  jaw, 
So  bitter   was   my   heart  that  he 
Soon  died  of  it  in  agony. 
Ha,  ha,   ha! 

Alas!  this  always  is  the  end 
Of  those  who  other  folk  befriend! 
But   what   is   man?     Tell   me,   who   can. 
Some  say  the  root  of  flowers  fair, 
Which  bloom  above  in  heaven  there! 
Man   is   a  flower,   'tis   true,   whose   root 
Down   into  deepest   hell   doth   shoot; 
I   heard  a   sage   discuss   these   things   one   day 
Who,    being   a    fool,    of   hunger   died,    they    say; 
Instead   of  cramming  learning  in   his   head 
Why   did   he   not   steal,   rob  and   kill   for  bread? 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  225 

Why  laugh  I  like  a  fool  here,  why? 
I    should    lament    and    loudly    cry, 
The  world's   so  bad  that  even  the   sky 
Will   often  weep  that  it  gave  birth 
To   such   foul   creatures   as  the   earth. 
But  what  becomes   of  heaven's  tear? 
Falling  upon  this  earth  down  here, 
Men   tread  upon   it  with   their  feet! 
— God's   tear   becomes — mud  in   the   street. 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 

A  hoary  veteran  is  the   sky, 
The  sun  and  moon  his  medals  signify, 
And    thus    the    brave    old    soldier    fares, 
The  clouds,  the  threadbare  cloak  he  wears, 
A  cross-  and  rag  pay  for  his  cares. 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 

What    means    the    quail's    call    in    man's    tongue, 
When    chattering  in   the  morning  young? 
He  says  of  women  to  beware, 

She'll  draw  you  sure  into  a  snare.  '«*• 

Woman  is  a  splendid   creature, 
Beautiful,    though    dangerous; 
The  lovelier  in  form  and  feature, 
The  more  of  'peril   she  brings  us. 
A  deadly  drink  she  serves  in  cups  of  gold, 
Love's  drink,  to  quaff  I  often  did  make  bold. 
One  drop  of  thee,  O!  what  a  heavenly  treat! 
Yet  from  one  drop  such  gall  can  be  distilled 
As  though  the  sea  with  poisonous  drugs  were  filled! 
Have  you  seen  ocean  depths  the  tempests  plough? 
They  furrow  it;  death  seeds  are  sown,  I  trow. 
Have  you  seen  tempest,  this  brown  ugly  churl, 
His  lightning  flashes   o'er  the  wide  sea  hurl? 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 

The  fruit  when  ripe  falls  from  the  tree; 
Ripe    earth,   you    must   be   plucked,   I    see. 
Until  to-morrow  I  shall  wait 


226  ALEXANDER  PET6FI 

Then,    hoary   earth,    you'll    expiate 
Your  crimes!     A  great  deep  hole 
I'll  dig  in  thee,  and,  on  parole, 
I'll  fill  it  up  with  powder  dry 
And  blow  the   earth  up  to  the  sky! 
Ha,  ha,  ha! 


I  DO  NOT  WEEP... 
(Nem  sirok  en.) 


1  do  not  weep,  do  not  complain, 

To  tell  my  sorrows  1  refrain. 

But  if  you  saw  my  haggard  face 

W'hat's  writ  on  it  with  ease  you'd  trace, 

And  in  my  purblind  eyes  you'd  see 

The   dreadful   curse  which   weighs   on   me, 

The  miserable  life  I  lead; — 

An  awful  curse  is  my  life's  meed. 


WHAT  IS  THE  END  OF  MAN? 
(Az  ember  ugyan  hova  lesz?)    .. 


What  is  the  end  of  man? 
Explain  to  me  who  can: 
Did  old  Socrates 
After  his  decease 
From  poison  go, — 
I'd   like    to   know, — 
To  the  same  place,  where 
Had  gone  hi«  murderer? 

This  can  not  be;  and  yet... and  yet; 

Could  we  a  glance  of  the  hereafter  get! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  227 

WHAT  IS  GLORY? 
(Mi  a  dicsoseg?) 


What  glory  is?  A  splendid  rainbow  which  on  high 

appears, 

The  rays  of  sun  reflecting  in  the  flow  of  human 

tears. 


MAJESTIC  NIGHT. 
(Fonseges  ej.) 


Majestic  night! 

How  brightly  shine,  while  wandering  o'er  the  sky, 

The  pale  moon  and  the  evening  star  on  high! 

Majestic  night! 

On  meadow-grass  the  dew-drops  brightly  shine. 

In  forest's  shade  a  nightingale  sings  fine. 

Majestic  night! 

The  youth  goes  forth  to  meet  the  lovelorn  maid... 

The  robber  chief  goes  forth  to  ply  his  trade... 

Majestic  night! 


ARE  THEY  LOVERS?... 
(Szeretoje-e?...) 


Soul  and  body,  are  they  lovers, 
I  would  like  to  know? 
Do  they,  as  is  fit  for  lovers 

Feel  each  other's  woe? 
Or  is  the  soul  a  so-called  friend, 
Who  honest  friendship  does  pretend, 
Until  he  finds  the  end  is  nigh, 
When  he  is  off  and  let  him  die? 


228  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

MUTABILITY. 
(Mulandosag.) 

The  king  of  all  the  kings  is  contsant  change, 
The  world  is  his  great  royal  home  and  strange 

The  things  are  which  e'er  follow  in  his  wake, 

Where'er  he  goes,  whatever  course  he'll  take. 
Where'er  he  enters,— and  that  is  everywhere, — 
O'er  what  he  steps, — and  naught  in  life  he'll  spare, — 

By  foul   decay  is  touched...    Strewn   o'er   the 

ground 

Withered  flowers  and  broken  hearts  are  found. 


WE  WERE  IN  THE  GARDEN. 
(Kint  a  kertben  voltunk.) 


We  were  in  the  garden,  you  and  I, 
We  sat  close  together.     God  on  High 
Knows  what  happened  'round  us,  I  do  not, 
Was  it  spring  or  autumn?     I  forgot. 
One  thing  I   remember  very  well: 
Close  to  you  I  sat,  bound  by  a  spell. 

I  looked  into  your  dark,  beauteous  eye, 

And  your  snowhite  hands  squeezed,  shy  and  sly. 

Looking  at  each  other  with  intent, 

I  asked,  whether  you  would  be  content 

If,  as  we  were  sitting,  all  alone, 

God  Almighty  turned  us  into   stone? 

"I  would  be!"    >You  answered,  in  a  breath. 
Did  you,  when  you  said  that,  long  for  death? 
Or,  sweeet  maid,  the  answer  my  ear  caught, 
Was  it  caused  by  that  sweet,  blissful  thought: 
We  two  petrified,  would, — happy  share! — 
Close  together  sit  for  e'er  and  e'er? 


SELECTED  LYRICS  229 

POETIC  FANCY  T  WAS. 
(Koltoi  abrand  volt...) 


Poetic  fancy  't  was  what  until  now  I  felt, 

Poetic  fancy  't  was,  not  love,  which  thrilled  my 

soul. 
My  aching,  bleeding  heart,  wherein  these  fancies 

dwelt, 

Xo  trace  of  any  illness  shows,  is  strong  and  whole. 
If  love  had  been  what  caused  my  heart's  great  woe 
Not   even   fleeting  time   could  prove  a  helpful 

friend 
Man's  passion  's  a  wild  stream  and  swift  its  torrents 

flow, 
Destruction  carrying  along  and  deathly  end. 

'Tis  only  now  I  reached  this  wildly  flowing  stream, 
It  carries  me  along  in  waves  that  rise  and  swell, 

The  bellringers   call   put:   the   danger  is  supreme! 
The  peril's  nigh!  Ring  out  aloud  the  alarmbell. 

The  bells  should  toll!  The  folks  mig,ht  rush  to  save 

me  yet. 
But  no!  My  feverish  heart  itself  's  an  alarmbell: 

The  maiden  heard  it  toll,  it  caused  her  no  regret» 

.   She  having  not,  let  no  one  else  the  tumult  quell- 

Oh  girl!  oh  girl!  that  thou  should'st  cause  me 

such  a  woe 

I  did  not  find  set  forth  on  fate's  recording  scroll. 
Did'st  draw  me  on  that  thou  could'st  simply  over- 
throw 

Poor  me,  or  blind  me  with  the  splendor  of  tin- 
soul? 
Thy  soul  shines  bright  as  shines  the  sun  before  his 

rays 
An  eclipse  caused  to  grow  more  pale,  and  as  the 

sun 


230  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Will  have  grown  cold  when  he,  at  last,  has  run  his 

days, 
So  is  thy  own  breast  cold  thou  cruel,  heartless  one! 

Thou  said,  and  saying  it  thou  didst  not  tremble- 
e'en, 

Thou  said,  that  never  yet  thou  hast  loved  any  one. 
Fearest  thou  not  our  God's  revenge  which  is  most 

keen 
Because  his   saintly  goal  of  life  "to  love"  thou 

darest  shun? 

Or  doest  thou  think  no  man  is  worth  thy  sentiment 
Of  love,  and  to  be  told  by  thee:  "thou  art  my 

own!" 
Or  fearest  thou  that  when  thy  heart  its  treasures 

spent, 
"They  are  forever  lost"  shall  be  thy  plaintive  moan. 

It  may  be  true  that  disillusion  be  thy  share, 

But  therefore  not  to  love  no  reason  though. 
More  worth  than  stagnant,  lifeless  peace  that  does 

not  care, 

Are -sufferings  quick  with  life  which  from  life's 

struggles  flow. 
Will  man  not  build  a  home  because  It  might  well  be 

That  at  some  future  day  a  fire  destroys  his  place? 
Shall  therefore  he  the  summer's  heat  bear  patiently, 

And  he  submit  to  winter's  icy  arms'  embrace? 

But  more  than  once  I  saw  thy  lips  ope  for  a  sigh. 

'Tis  easy  then  to  know  thou  hast  a  heart  which 

feels. 
But  just  as  icy  snow  covers  the  Vulcan  high, 

Thy  brain  's  a  shield  of  ice  which  thy  true  heart 

conceals. 
Tell  me,  oh  girl,  't  is  so  and  patiently  I  wait 

Until  thyself  shall  come  to  me  and  say:  "I  yield," 
Until  the  time  shall  come  when  we,  in  blissful  state, 

With  freely  given  burning,  ktss  our  love  have  sealed 


SELECTED  LYRICS  231 

The  time  is  long,  each  day  I'll  have  to  wait  shall  be 

Like  all  eternity  to  me,  but  I'll  not  fail. 
I'll  feel  as  does  the  eager  seaman  out  at  sea 

Whose  craft  toward  the  shore  is  driven  by  the  gale. 
The  wind  then  turns  and  although  he  is  near  the 

shore, 

Nevertheless  he  cannot  yet  a  safe  port  gain. 
While  this  eternal  longing  makes  me  sick  and  sore, 

For  thee — my  dear, — I'll  deem  't  is  sweet  to  bear 

my  pain. 

The  body  to  whose  wounds  the  sharp  knife  is 

applied- 

Can  no  such  pain  feel  as  is  felt  by  me  just  now. 
I'd  suffer  not  to  burning  stake  if  I'd  be  tied 

As  I  do  by  the  yearning  longings  I  avow. 
One  drop  of  balm,  I  pray',  put  on  this  burning  pain, 

One  tiny  drop  from  hope's  deep  well  apply  sweet 

maid: 
That  thou  in  time  to  come,  be  it  in  years,  wilt  deign 

My  woes  with  the  reward  "may  be''  to  have  repaid. 

Oh  no!  do  not  encourage  me  with   future's  bliss, 

It  is  not  alms  I  want!  My  soul's  salvation  give! 
What  I   said  "I  would  wait" — as  false  thou  must 

dismiss, 

My  patience  has  long  since  become  a  fugitive, — 
And  wild  horse  like  it  runs,  my  soul  with  it  is  borne, 

It  runs  on  paths  perilous  to  a  high  degree, 
Where  by  a  wild  beast  into  shreads  it  might  be  torn, 

Dost  know  this  wild  beast's  name?  It  is — insanity! 

Give  me,  dear  maid,  give  me  back  to  myself.,  I  pray, 
Give  me  back  to  the  world,  restore  this  life  of 

mine. 

But  no!  keep  me  for  sweet  thyself.  I  wished  to  say, 
Thou  can'st  thus  cast  me  off,  fore'er  my  life  is 

thine. 
Tell  me:  "come  to  my  loving  arms!  Thou  hast 

conquerred!" 


232  ALEXANDER    PETOFI 

And  at  these  mighty  words,  the  heavens  e'en 

might  fall, 
Who  cares?  Can  man  a  death  more  glorious  have 

preferred 
Than  'neath  tins'  blissful  weight  feel  death  has 

ended  all? 

And  if  thou  lovest  me  not,  thy  love  I  ne'er  should 

own, 

'Tis  all  the  same,  united  is  my  soul  with  thee 
As  are  the  leaf  and  twig.     Ere  winter's  blasts  have 

«  blown 

The  leaves  are  sere  and  lifeless  fall  they  from 

the   tree; 
This  is  our  fate,  e'en  to  the  grave-     Go  far  away. 

Shun  me, — 't  is  all  in  vain,  beyond  all  thy  control. 

A  dark  form  which  ne'er  leaveth  me,  be  night  or  day, 

Thy  shadow  't  is?  Oh,  no!  It  is  my  doleful  soul. 


I  DREAM  OF  GORY  DAYS. 
(Veres  napokrol  almodom.) 


I  dream  of  dread  and  gory  days, 

Which   come  this  world  to   chaos   casting, 
While  o'er  its  ruining  works  and  ways 

The  new  world  rises  everlasting. 

Could  I  but  hear,  could  I  but  hear 

The  trumpet's  blare  to  carnage  calling! 

I   scarce  can  wait  till  on  my  ear 
The  summons  sounds,  to  some  appalling. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  233 

Then  to  the  saddle  quick  I'd  spring, 
My  mettled  steed  with  joy  bestriding,, 

And  haste  to  join  the  noble  ring 
Of  heroes,  wjho  to  fight  are  riding. 

And  should  a  spear-thrust  pierce  my  breast, 
There  will  be  One — a  fair  thought  this  is — 

By  whom  my  wound  will  then  be  dressed, 
My  pain  assuaged  by  balmy  kisses. 

If  taken  captive  I  should  be, 

This  One,  my  dungeon's  gloom  adorning, 
Will  surely  come  to  visit  me, 

In  radiance  like  the  star  of  morning. 

And  should  I  die,  and  should  I  die 
On  scaffold  or  'mid  cannons'  rattle, 

This  One  with  tears  will  then  be  nigh 
To  wash  awav  the  blood  of  battle. 


BRIGHT-BLUE  THE  NIGHT. 
(Vilagos  kek  a  csillagos  ejszaka.) 


Bright-blue    the    night,    stars    gleam   on   high- 

While  from  the  open  window  I 

The   heaven   view   with   wistful   eyes: 

My  soul  to  my  beloved-one  flies.  • 

Bright,   starry   sky  and   sweetheart  maid, 
No   fairer   things   our   Lord-God   made; 
At  least  I,  who  the  world  well  know, 
Can  truly  say  I  find  it  so. 

The  waning  moon  sinks  to  the  west, 
Behind  yon  mountain  to  find  rest. 
My  own  woe  like  she  groweth  pale, 
Until  to  note  it  e'en  I  fail. 


234  ALEXANDER    PETOFI 

•  Within  the  sky  the  Pleiads  glow, 
Some   roosters  in  the   distance  crow. 
It  dawns,  a  sharp  fresh  wind  arose, 
It   coolingly   around   me   blows. 

Shall   I    my   window   leave,   lie   down? 
Let  golden   dreams   my   sleep   now  .crown? 
Oh,    no!    not   e'en   the    fairest    dream, 
Makes  life  so  sweet  it  now  doth   seem. 


ONE  THOUGHT  TORMENTS  ME. 
(Egy  gondolat  bant  engemet.) 


One  thought  torments  me  sore,  lest  I 

Upon  a  pillowed  couch  should   die — 

Should  slowly  fade  like  fair,  frail  flower 

Whose  heart  the  gnawing  worms  devour; 

Or,  like  the  light  in  some  void  room, 

Should  faintly  flicker  into  gloom. 

Let  no  such  ending  come  to  me, 

O    God!   but   rather   let   me   be 

A  tree,  through  which  the  lightning  shoots, 

Or  which  the  strenuous  storm  uproots; 

Or  like   the   rock   from   hill   out-torn 

Ai>d    thundering,   to   the   valley   borne! 

When   every  nation  wearing   chains 

Shall  rise  and  seek  the  battle  plains, 

With  flushing  face  shall  wave  in  fight 

Their  banners  blazoned   in   the   light! 

"For   liberty!" 

Their  cry  shall  be — 

Their  cry  from   east  to  west, 

Till    tyrants    be    suppressed. 

There   shall   I   gladly  yield 

My  life   upon   the   field. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  235 

There  shall  my  heart's  last  blood  flow  out, 

And   I    my  latest   cry   shall  shout. 

May  it  be  drowned  in  clash  of  steel, 

In   trumpets'   and   in  cannons'  peal; 

And  o'er  my  corpse 

Let  tread  the  horse, 

Which   gallops   home    from    victory's   gain 

And  leaves  me  trodden  'mid  the  slain. 

My   scattered   bones   shall   be   interred 

Where  all  the  dead  are  sepulchred — 

When,  amid  slow  funereal  strains, 

Banners  shall  wave  o'er  the  remains 

Of  heroes  who  have  died  for  thee, 

O,    world-delivering    Liberty! 


THE   ROSEBUSH   TREMBLES. 
(Reszket  a  bokor.) 


The  rosebush  trembled  when 

A  bird  on  its  twig  flew; 
My  own   soul   trembles   when 

1    think,   my   dear,   of   you, 
I   think,  my  dear,  of  you, 

My    darling,    charming   maid. 
Thou  art  the  richest  gem 

My  God  has  ever  made. 

When  swollen  is  the  Danube, 

Then   it  doth  overflow; 
My  heart,  with   love  replete, 

Doth  now  for  thee  just  so. 
Tell  me,  my  dearest  rose, 

Art   thou  to  me  still  true? 
Not  even  thy  parents,  dear, 

Can  love  thee  as  I  do. 


236  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

I  know  thy  love  was  mine 

'Neath  last  year's  summer  sun; 
But  winter  came  since  then — 

Who  knows  what  he  has  done: 
Shouldst  thou  love  me  no  more, 

I  pray  God  bless  thee  still; 
But,  if  thou  lov'st  me  then, 

A  thousandfold  he  will- 


MY  SONGS. 
(Dalaim.) 


Oft  am  I  sunk  in  deepest  thought, 
Although  my  musings  bring  me  naught, 
My  thoughts  o'er  all  the  country  fly, 
Flit  o'er  the  earth,  soar  to  the  sky, 
The   songs   which   from  my   lips   then   roll 
Are  moon-rays  of  my  dreamy  soul. 

Instead   of  dreaming,  better  -'twere 

If  for  my  future  I  should  care; 

And  yet  I  ask,  what  care  have  I 

Since  God  doth  guard  me  from  on  high, 

The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 

Are  mayflies  of  my  care-freed   soul. 

But  if  a  lovely  maid   I  meet, 

My   thoughts   to   inner   depths    retreat; 

And  then  into  her  eyes  I  gaze, 

As  on  the  lake  fall  starry  rays. 

The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 

Are    roses    of    my   love-bound    soul. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  237 

If  mine  her  love,  my  joy  wine  crowns, 
If  not,  then  wine  my  sorrow  drowns, 
And  where  wine  in  abundance  flows, 
There   gayety  right   swiftly  grows. 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are   rainbows  of  my  misty  soul. 

Yet,  while  I  hold  the  glass  in  hand, 
The  yoke  oppresses  many  a  land; 
And  joyous   as  the  glasses   ring, 
As   sadly   bondsmen's   fetters    cling; 
The  songs  which-  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are  clouds  that  overcast  my  soul. 

Why  do  men  dwell  in  slavery's  night? 
Why  burst  they  not  their  chains  in  fight? 
Or  do  they  wait  till  God  some  day 
Shall  let  rust  gnaw  their  chains  away? 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are  lightning  flashes  from  my  soul. 


'THE   IMPRISONED   LION. 
(A  rab  oroszlan.) 


The    boundless   desert    is    his    home   no    more, 
Within   an  iron  cage  he  now  must  roar. 

He,   so  debased,   the  desert's   royal  king, 
To  stand  thus  fettered  by  an  iron  ring! 

To  trifle  with  his  sorrow  let  us  cease; 
'Tis   desecration   to   disturb   his   peace. 


238  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

If  of  his  liberty  he  is  bereft. 

Its  memory  still  be  to  his  heart's  ease  left. 

If  to  the  tree  his  near  approach  be  stayed, 
Let   him   at   least   enjoy   a  little    shade. 

See  in  his  mien  what  majesty  is  found. 

And  with  what  grandeur  do  his  looks  abound! 

Although   from   him   his  liberty  they  took, 
They   could  not   take   his  proud,  heroic  look. 

Even  as  the  pyramid  he  seemeth   grand. 
Which  towered  above  his  own  loved  land. 

His  memory  fondly  leads  him  back  again; 
Once  more  is  he  upon  his  native  plain, 

That   vast   expanse   of  wilderness   where   o'er 
The  wild  simoom   hath  raced  with  him  of  yore. 

O    glorious   land!    O   happy   days   and   sweet' 
But   hush!    He   hears   the   prison-keeper's   feet. 

And  lo!  the  world  of  fantasy  hath   fled 
When   cruel   keeper   smites   him   on   the    head- 

A  stick — and  such  a  boy  commands  him  now 
O  heavenly  powers  to  this  he  has  to  bow. 

Hath  he  become  so  pitiful  and  poor, 
This   deepest   degradation   to   endure? 

Behold  the  stupid  herd,  the  gaping  crowd 
At    his   humiliation    laugh   aloud. 

How  dare  they  breathe,  for  should  he  break  his 

chain 

X»    soul   of  them   from   hell-fire    would   remain! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  239 

IF  BORN  A  MAN,  THEN  BE  A  MAN. 
(Ha  ferfi  vagy,  legy  ferfi.) 


If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 

And  not  a  wretched  grub 
That  pusillanimously   bears 

Fate's   every  knock  and   rub! 
Fate   is  a   cur  that  only  barks- 

But   fears  a  manly  blow; 
A  man  must  ever  ready  be 

To  bravely  meet  his  foe! 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 

And  boast  not  of  the  fact; 
More  clear  tongued  than   Demosthenes 

Are   valiant    thought   and   act- 
Build  up,  destroy,  but  silent  be 

When   finished;    spare   display 
Just  as  the  storm  that  does  its  work 

Subsides  and  dies  away. 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 

Hold   honor,   faith,   thy  own: 
Express  them  even  if  thy  blood 

Should  for  thy  creed  atone. 
Forfeit  thy  life  an  hundred  times 

Ere  thou  thy  word  dost  break; 
Let  all  be  lost,  'tis  -not  too  much 

To  pay  for  honor's  sake. 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 

And  bargain   not   away 
Thy  independence  e'en  for  all 

The   great    world's   rich   array. 
Despise  the  knave  who  sells  himself. 

The   man   who   lias   his   price! 
"A  beggar's  staff  and  liberty" 

I5c    ever    thv   device! 


240  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 

Strong,  brave  and  true  as  steel! 
Then  trust  that  neither  man  nor  fate 

Can  crush  thee  'neath  their  heel. 
An  oak  be,  which  the  hurricane 

May  shake  and  break  and  rend; 
But  ne'er  possess  the  power  its  frame 

Or  giant  force  to  bend! 


SONG  OF  THE  DOGS  AND  WOLVES. 
(A  kutyak  es  farkasok  dala.) 


I. 


How  fierce  the  tempest  blows — 
The  winter's   cruel  twin: 

The   chill  and  freezing  snows 
To  reign   outside   begin. 

What  heed  we  who  enjoy 
The  kitchen  corner  snug? 

Where   masters  kind   supply 
Straw  and  a  cosy  rug. 

For  food  we  have  no  care; 

When  masters  gorge  their  meat, 
The  remnants  are  our  share, 

Which  we  may  freely  eat. 

Full  oft  we  feel  the  log 

That  hurts,  but  then,  we  own 
That  nothing  harms  a  dog — 

A  fact  too  widely  known! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  241 

When  master's  wrath  is  o'er, 

And  he  has  ceased  to  beat 
Grateful  we  crawl  before 

And   lick  his  gracious  feet. 

II. 

How   fierce   the   tempest  blows — 

The   winter's    cruel   twins: 
Chill   rain  and  freezing  snows 

To  reign  outside  begin. 

Empty  the  country  is, 

Our  home  this  barren  space; 
Xot  e'en  a  bush  affords  ^  • 

To  us  a  hiding  place. 

Without  'tis  bitter  cold, 

And    hunger   fierce    within; 
Relentlessly   pursue  ' 

These  foes  of  ours,  born  twin. 

Besides  those  foes,  a  third — 

The   loaded   gun — we   dread, 
When  the  milk-white   snow  \ 

Is   stained   with   bloody   red. 

We  freeze,  we  starve,  we  feel  j 

The  shot  wounds  in  our  breast; 

Hard  is  our  lot,  but  yet 

With  freedom  we  are  blest! 


I  AM  A  MAGYAR. 
(Magyar  vagyok.) 


A  Magyar  I !     The  splendor  of  my  land 
Xaught  can  surpass.     She  is  the  loveliest 

Upon  the  globe,  and  countless  as  the  sand 
The  beauties  are  she  bears  upon  her  breast- 


242  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Jn  mountains  she  is  rich  and  from  their  height 
One  casts  his   glance  beyond  the   distant  sea; 

Her  fertile   plains  are   wide,   you   think   they   might 
Extend   to    where   the    world's   end   seems   to   be. 

A  Magyar  1!     By  nature  am  I   sad 

As   are  the. first  tunes   of  my   nation's   lay. 
And  though  I  often  smile  when  1  am  glad, 

1   never  laugh,  however   I   be  gay. 
But  when  the  utmost  joy  doth  fill  my -breast, 

In  freely  flowing  tears  breaks  out  my  glee; 
Yet  joyous  seems  my  face  when  most  depressed, 

.For  none  shall  ever  dare  to  pity  me. 

A  Magyar  1 !     With  pride  1  cast  my  eye 

Over  the  sea  of  history  past  and  see 
Vast,  mighty  rocks  that  almost  reach  the  sky; 

They  are  my  nations  deeds  of  bravery. 
We,  too,  were  acting  once  on  Europe's  stage, 

And  ours  was  not  an   empty,  useless  role! 
When,  at  the  play,  our  sword  we  drew  in  rage 

All  feared  us,  as  the  child  the  thunder's  roll. 

A  Magyar  1!      But  what  is  that  to-day? 

Ghost   of   a   glorious   past   that   restless    stirs 
At  dark,  but  which  the  midnigjht  spells  must  lay 

In  dreamless  sleep  clown  is  his  sepulchres. 
How  mute  we  are!     Our  neighbors  nearest  by 

Scarce  gain  a  sign  that  we  are  yet  alive; 
One   brother   will   the   other   vilify 

And  in  our  land,  but  wrong  and  falsehood  thrive- 

A  Magyar  I!      But  O!     how  I   deplore 

To  be  a  Magyar  now!     It  is  a  shame 
That   while  the   sun.  in   brightness   shines   all   o'er, 

Xo  gleam  or  dawn  to  us  as  yet  there  came; 
Still   all   the   wealth   on   earth  could   not  suffice 

My  lov€>of  thee  dear  spot,  e'er  to  efface; 
Dear   native  land,   I   still  must  idolize 

And  love  thee  still  in  spite  of  thy  disgrace! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  243 

A  HOLY  GRAVE. 

(Szent  sir.)  < 


Far,  very  far  away, 

Whence   in   the   gentle   spring, 

To  us  the  swallows  come; 
Far,   very   far   away, 
Where  in  our  wintry  days, 

The  swallow  has  her  home. 

A  holy  grave  doth  rise, 
Close  to  the  green  sea-waves 

That   wash    the   yellow   shore; 
A   weeping  willow's   branch, 
A   wild   shrub's  crape-like  veil 

This   lone   grave    shadeth   o'er. 

Beside   this   single   shrub, 
There  comes  no  thing  to  mourn 

The  glorious  dead's  decease, 
Who  for  a  century, 
After  a  busy  life, 

Sleeps  here  in  endless  peace. 

He  was  a  hero  bold, 

The   last-left   valorous   knight, 

Who  for  fair  freedom  fought; 
But  how  could  fate  protect 
One   on   whom  his  own   land 

Ingratitude    had    wrought- 

He    into    exile    went, 
l.'.^t  his  degenerate  land 

He  should  be  forced  to  see, 
And.  seeing,  he  should  curse; 
While  from  an  alien  shore 

He  looks   with   charitv. 


244  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  here,  day  after  day, 

He  watched  the  clouds  that  came 

From  his   own   deares.t  home. 
Was  it  the  sunset  glow, 
Or  yet  his  country's  shame 

That  burned  in  heaven's  dome? 

He  often  sat  to  catch 
The  murmur  of  the  waves 

That  move  the  rolling  sea. 
He  almost  dreamed  he  heard 
His  country  once  again, 

Was  happy,  proud  and  free! 

That  he  should  hear  once  more 
His  native  land  was  free 

Was  still  his  fond  belief. 
And   for   his   freedom's   news 
He  waited,  until  death 

Brought  him  most  sweet  relief. 

At  home,  even  now,  his  name 
Is  hardly  known.     But  one 

Remembers  him,  the  bard- 
Forgotten   he   would   be — 
Sang  not  the  bard  of  him, 

Freedom's   eternal  guard! 


THE   WIND. 
(A  szel.) 


To-day,  a  soft,  mild,  whispering  breeze  am  I, 
As  gently  o'er  the  greening  fields  I  rove, 

Breathe  kisses  on  the  faces  of  the  buds, 

My  sweet,  warm  kiss,  the  pledge  of  my  true  love 


SELECTED  LYRICS  245 

"Bloom,  bloom!  fair  daughters  of  the  balmy  spring!" 
Soft  whispering  in  their  ears  'bloom!  bloom!'  I  say 

Then,  as  their  coverings  they  shyly  ope, 
In   bliss    upon    their   breasts    I    faint   away. 

To-morrow  though   I   am  the  shrill-voiced  wind, 

The  bush  in  fear  shall  tremble  in  my  path, 
Beholding  in  my  hands  the  whetted  knife, 

It  knows   I   shall  deprive   it  of  its  green. 
"Ye  foolish,   trusty  maidens  fade  away!" 

I  hiss  unto  the  flow'rs  and  withered,  sere 
They  fade  away  upon  the  autumn's  breast, 

While  cold  and  scornful  I  but  laugh  and  jeer. 

To-day  a  meek  breeze  I,  as  o'er  smooth  streams 

I  peacefully  and  calm  float  through  the  air 
Observed  but  by  the  little,  weary  bee, 

Who,  flying  homewards  from  the  meads,  doth  bear 
Her  burden   at   her  side, — the  gathered  sweets 

For  honey-making, — culled  from  flowers  bright. 
The  tiny  creature  on  my  palm  I  bear 

And  thus  assist  her  in  her  weary  flight. 

To-morrow,  once  again,  the  tempest  mad! 

O'er  angry  seas  on  my  wild  steed  I'll  ride, 
Cause  in  my  wrath  their  dark-green  locks  to  shake, 

The  lord  like,  who  by  stubborn  child's  defied. 
I'll  sweep  the  sea,  and  if  a  ship  I  meet, 

Her  wings,  the  flutt'ring  sails  I'll  wrest. 
And  with  her  mast  write  on  the  waves  her  fate: 

"No  more  wilt  thou  in  any  harbor  rest!" 

THE   FLOWERS. 
(A  viragok.) 

Out  in  the  field  to  where  I  go, 

Midst  blade  o'  grass  fair  flowers  grow. 

The  flowers  sweet,  which  here  1  see 

How  precious  are  you  all  to  me. 


246  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

As  had  I  met  a  beauteous  maid 
My  heart  throbs  with  the  joy  conveyed, 
Plant   flowers   fair, — when   once   I    die, — 
Above  the  grave  wherein  I   lie. 

Beside  the  flowers  I  take  my  seat 
And  then  with  friendly  chat  I  greet, 

E'en  love's   confession   make  to  them. 

Do  you  love  .me?  I   ask  of  them 
They  answer  not,  but  I   can  tell 
They   understand    me-  very   well. 

Plant  flowers  fair, — when  once  I  die, — 

Above  the  grave  wherein  I  lie. 

Who  knows?     Does  not  the  flower's  scent 
Its  very  language  represent? 

We  grasp  it  not,  it  doth  not  reach 

Our  souls  a^  does  sweet  human  speech; 
Man's   soul   the    sweet  perfume   enjoys, 
But  does  not  hear  the  spirit  voice. 

Plant  flowers  fair, — when  once  I  die, — 
Above  the  grave  wherein  I  lie. 

Aye,  aye!  this  scent  is  speech,  e'en  more! 
It  is  a  song,  a  song  of  spirit  lore. 

When  I  cast  off  this  earthly  clay 

And  in  the  grave  am  laid  away. 
I'll  no  more  scent  that  sweet  perfume 
I'll  hear  the   song  within  my  tomb! 

Plant  flowers  fair, — when  once   I  die, — 

Above  the  grave  wherein  I  lie. 

This   scent,   the   flowers'   melody, 
At  one  time  be  my  lullaby, 

The   gentle  tune  of  which   shall  bring 

Sweet  sleep  to  me  each  coming  spring. 
From  spring  to  spring  these  songs  shall  thrill 
My  soul,  my  sleep  with  bright  dreams  fill. 

Plant  flowers  fair, — when  once  I  die, — 

Above  the  grave  wherein  I  lie. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  247 

RAGGED    HEROES. 
(Rongyos   vitezek.) 


I  also  could  with  rythm  and  rhyme 

My  poems   clothe  and  deck  them  out, 
Just  as  a  dandy  it  behooves 

To  dress  for  some  gay  ball  or  rout. 

But  then  these  cherished  thoughts  of  mine 
Are   not   like    fashion's   idle   toys, 

Who  find,  beperfumed  and  begloved, 
In   fancy  garb  their  chiefest  joys. 

The  clash  of  swords,  the  cannon's  roll 
llave  died  in  rust;  a  war  begun 

Is  now  without  a  musket  waged — 
But  with  ideas  shall  be  won. 

I,   too,  the   gallant   ranks  have  joined, 
And  with  my  age  am  sworn  to  fight, 

Have  in  command  a  stalwart  troop, 
Kach  song  of  mine  a  valiant  knight. 

My  men.  'tis  true,  are  clad  in  rags, 
l?ut  each  of  them  is  brave  and  bold; 

\Ye  gauge  the  soldier  not  by  dress 
But  by  his  deeds  of  valor  bold. 

I    never  question  if  my   songs 

Will  live  beyond  me;  'tis  but  naught 

To  me;  if  they  are  doomed  to  die 

They  fall  at  least  where  they  have  fought. 

Even  then  the  book  shall  hallowed  be 
Wherein  my  thoughts  lie  buried  deep; 

For   'tis   the   heroes'   burial  place 

Who   for   the   sake  of  freedom   sleep. 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

FIRE. 
(Ttiz.) 


Not  like  the  willow  tree  rots  in  the  swamp 
Do  I  want  pass  away.  My  death 

Be  like  the  oaVs  on  high  which  is  consumed 
By  lightnings  fiery  breath. 

Give  me  the  flaming  fire!  For  fish  and  frogs 
The  water  might  be  good  enough. 

For   poetasters  too,   who   froglike   croak 
Their    labored    doggerel   like    stuff. 

A  flaming  fire!     Thou   art  my  element! 

Throughout  the  days  of  long  ago 
My  body  often  froze,  my  soul  howe'er 

Was   e'er   surcharged  with  fiery  glow. 

Come,  pretty  little  maid,  I  love  thee  well 

Come,  passionately  I  love  thee! 
But   fiery  be   thyself,   or   else:    good-bye 

My  love,  we  two  can  not  agree. 

Innkeeper,  bring  a  jug  of  wine!  but   heed: 

Good  wine!   If  watery  at  all, 
That  jug  flies  either  at  thy  head  or  I 

Shall  promptly  smash  it  on  the  wall. 

This  is  the  only  life  that's  worth  to  live: 

With  fiery  maid  and  fiery  wine! 
And  what  I  have  almost  forgot  to  name: 

We  must  not  miss,  the  song  divine- 
Then  sing  a  song!  a  fiery  song!  The  tongue 

Shall  rot  within  the  human  frame 
Which  can  not  sing  a  song  from  which  the  heart 

Is  not   inspired  by  holy  flame. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  249 

Xot  like  the  willow  tree  rots  in  the  swamp 
Do  I  want  pass  away.     My  death 

Be  like  the  oak's  on  high  which  is  consumed 
By   lightning's   fiery   breath. 


MY  JULIA  IS  MINE,  AT  LAST. 
(Birom   vegre  Juliskamat.) 


My  Julia  is  mine  at  last, 

Forever  mine  alone, 
To  God  and  all  the  world,  I  can 

Proclaim   her  as  my  own. 

In  joyful  mood  now,  I  have  not 

Forgotten    former   woe, 
Shall  I  now  laugh,  shall  I  now  weep 

With  joy,  I  do  not  know. 

Am  I   the  man  who  until  now 

But  misery  had  seen? 
And  to  whose  heart,  each  day  of  life 

A  dreadful  curse  had  been? 

Am  I  indeed  the  man  who  now 
With  happiness  is  blessed? 

No  man  throughout  the  world  has  e'er 
Bliss  like  my  own  possessed. 

Most  eagerly  the  fall  of  leaves. 

The  autumn   I   expect, 
The  autumn  will  my  life's  spring  be: 

I'll    be    bridegroom-elect. 


250  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Into  the  future   I   not  look, 

I  do  not  even  try. 
This  future  is  like  noonday-sun, 

It  would  blinden  my  eye. 

I  rather  look  into  the  moon, 

Into  the  yesterday, 
It  is   as  fair,   but  gentler   is 

The  pale  moon's   silver  ray. 

How  glorious  this  yesterday 

Which  at  her  home  I   spent, 

Eternity  'tis  in  its  bliss 

That  one  day's  great  event. 

'Tis  then  I  drew  her  to  my  side, 
And  burning  hot  the  breath 

Which,  when  I  kissed  her  ruby  lips, 
My  lips  encountereth. 

My  own  lips  flamed  up  from  that  kiss! 

E'en  now  I  feel  the  glow, 
As  if  a  melting  sun's  fierce  flames 

Would  still  within  me  flow. 

I  do  not  even  fear  the  grave, 
Its  cold  can  do  no   harm, 

These  flames  shall  even  there  my  heart 
Protectingly   keep   warm. 


THOU  ART  MINE. 
(Te  az  enyem,  en  a  tied. . .) 

Thou  art  now  mine  and  I  am  thine,  . 

And  all  the  world  is  ours! 
Though  high  above  does  brightly  shine 

The   sun   in  midday  hours: 
Not  e'en  the  sun  on  high, 
Can  anywhere  espy 
Such  happy  folks  as  you  and  I. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  251 

My  rose  &  but  a  little  maid, 

-My  knee  holds  her  secure, 
My  rose  is  but  a  little  maid, 

Her  soul  is  big  and  pure. 
My  sweetheart's  soul  is  grand, 
And  wide  its  bounds  expand 
It  is  as  big  as  fairyland. 

Cometh  my  Julia  to  my  mind, 

I   can  see  in  the   dark, 
In  her  white  soul,  bright  eyes  I  find 

The  light  creating  spark. 
These  two  torches  suffice 
To  see  with  my  own  eyes 
The  glories  of  the  Paradise. 

Remembrest  thou,   of  course  them  must, 

Dear  mother,   when   I   played 
Before  our  house,  how  I  would  thrust 

.Myself   ahead,   and   made 
The  boys  to  do  the  thing 
I    wished    about    to    briny;? 
I  wanted  to  become  the  king! 

Well,  mother  dear,  I  hear  you  yet 

A-laughing  at   thy  boy, 
Who  on  his  childish  head  had  set 

As   crown,   a   broken   toy. 
But  God  Almighty,  He 
Had   heard   my   childhood's  plea, 
Indeed  a  king  he   made   of  me! 

I  am  a  king  since  mine  thou  art 

Sweet  Julia!  mine  alone! 
Xot  on  my  head,  within  my  heart 

The  crown  which  now  I  own. 
God  bless  thee  Julia   dear, 
Xo  king  on  earth  my  peer, 
Since  thy  sweet  love  crowns  my  career! 


ALEXANDER  PET0FI 

• 
HOW  BEAUTEOUS  IS  THE  WORLD. 

(Mily  szep  a  vilag.) 


Did  I  once  curse  my  life 

As   one   big,    dreadful    strife? 

Did   through   the   world  affright 
I  roam,  like  ghosts  at  night. 

Indeed,  I  blush  with  shame, 

To  have  injured  thy  fame 

Thou   life,   which   art   so   sweet, 
Thou  world,  with  bliss  replete- 

My  wild  youth's   stormy   days 
Have    calm    become.     The   rays 
Of   heaven's    smiling   eye 
Spread  light  beneath   the   sky, 
Like   loving   mothers    do 
When   they   their   babies  view. 
Indeed,   our   life   is   sweet, 
The   world   with   bliss    replete.' 

Each  day   that   comes   and   goes 
Weeds  out  one  of  my  woes. 
A  garden  is  once  more 
My  heart,  and  by  the  score 
Sweet  flowers   therein  bloom 
Each   with   a  rich  perfume. 
Indeed,   our   life   is   sweet, 
The   world   with   bliss    replete. 

No  more  with   diffidence 

I   view   faith;   confidence    . 
My   soul   gladdens    anew, 
As  if  friends,  good 'and  true, 

Who    had   been    absent   long 

Around   me   now   would   throng. 
Indeed,   our  life   is   sweet, 
The   world   with   bliss    replete. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  253 

Friends  of  my  youth!   Come,  nigh, 

And   nearer   still,  for  I 
Shall    nevermore    offend 
By  mistrusting  a  friend. 

Mistrust, — the    devil's    own, — 

Forever   I    disown. 
Indeed,  our  life  is  sweet, 
The   world   with   bliss   replete. 

And  comes  then  to  my  mind, 

The  flower  which  had   entwined 

Itself  around   my   heart, — 

A  fair  dream's  counterpart, — 
The  brown  maid  I  adore 
Who  loves  me  with  loves  lore: 

Indeed,   then   life   is   sweet, 

The   world   with   bliss   replete. 


AT  THE  END  OF  THE  YEAR. 
(Az  ev  vegen.) 


Thou  goest;  thy  course  is  run,  old  year! 

Well  go!     But  stay,  pass  not  alone;' 
Dark  is  the  next  world,  so  one  mij;ht 
Be   led  astray;   my  song  shall  light 

The  road,  and  thus  thy  way  be  known.* 

Again  I  grasp  my  good  old  lute, . 
Once  more   I   touch   its   tuneful   strings; 

It  has   been   mute,  but  I   will   try 

To  conjure  its   old  melody, 
If  still   it   passionately   sings. 


254  ALEXANDER  PET6FI 

If  e'er  thou  sangest  sweet,  let  now 
1  he    mellowest    lay    thy    strings    outpour; 
A  song  as  fair  as  ever  came 
From  thee,  and  worthy  of  thy  fame 
Shall   solemnize   this  parting  hour. 

Who  knows?  who  knows?  This  may  the  last, 
The  last  song  be   that   I   shall  hear. 
Laying   aside   the   lute   to-day, 

Wake   it  again   1   never  may; 
To  die  may  be  my  fate  this  year. 

The  army  of  the   God  of  Wars 
I  joined  and  now  go  forth  to  fight. 

A   next  year  I   may  never  see; 

But  yet   I   hope  my  poetry 
With   blood  dipped  battle-blade   to  write. 

Sing,  I   beseech  of  thee;   O,   sing 
In   accents    silver-clear,   my   lyre! 

Let  mild  or  thunderous  be  thy  voice, 

Let  it  be  sad,  let  it  rejoice; 
But  sing  with  passion  and  with  fire. 

A  tempest   thou    shalt   be,   which   will 
O'er  hill  and  vale  with  fury  sweep; 

A   zephyr   be,   which    smilingly 

Lulls   with   its   mellow  lullaby 
The  verdant   meadows  into   sleep. 

Or  yet  a  mirror  be,  wherein 
My  youth,  my  love,  shall  meet  my  eye, 
My  youth  which  dies,  but  never  wanes, 
My* love  which  ever  green  remains, 
Eternal  as  the  vault  on  high! 

O   sing,  'sweet  lute,  thy   sweetest  tunes, 

Give   all   the   song  that   in   thee  <s! 
The  setting  sun  sheds  with  delight 
His   rays   from   yonder   flaming   height 

And  spends  the  remnant   that  is  his. 


SELECTED   LYRICS 

And   if  thy  swan   sung  it   may   he. 
Peal  it  forth  mighty  and  sublime: 

Xot   to   be  lost   of   men   with   ease. 

But  let  it  over  centuries 
Come   echoing   from   the  rocks   of  time. 


AT  THE  HAMLET  S  OUTSKIRTS. 
(Falu  vegen  kurta  korcsma...) 


Outside   the   hamlet,   on   the   sands 
Of  Szamosh's  banks,  an  inn  there  stands, 
Which   in  the   stream   were   mirrored   clear, 
Did  eventide  not  draw  so  near. 

The    night    draws   nigh,    the    daylight    wanes, 
And   quiet   o'er   tin-   land.scape   reigns; 
The  swinging  bridge   is  safely  bound, 
And    darkness   girds   it   all   around. 

]'«ut,  in  the  tavern,  hark  the  noise. 
The   laugh   and  shout  of  village  boys.  • 
The  sound  of  cymbals  cleaves  the  air; 
The   gipsy-player   tarries   there. 

"Come,   pretty   hostess,   darling   mine, 
Pray  give  us  some   of  your   best    wine; 
Let  it  possess  my  grandsire's  years 
With   fervor   such   as   is   my   dear's. 

"Strike,  gypsy  boy,  strike  up!   I   swear 
I    want   to  dance   a   livelier  air — 
My   money   all    to    you    I    roll; 
To-night   I'll   dance   away    my   soul." 


256  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

But  some  one  knocks.     "My  master  says 
Too  great  the  noise  is  that  you  raise; 
Unless  in  bounds  your  mirth  you  keep, 
He   swears   he  cannot  g,o  to   sleep!" 

"Bad  luck  to  you!— your  master  tell 
That  both  of  you  Can  go  to   hell! 
Play,  gypsy  boy,  for  spite  now  play, 
Even  if  my  shirt  the  piper  pay." 

Again  a  knock  comes.   ."For  God's  sake, 

Pray  do  not  such  a  turmoil  make! 

I   beg  of  you  now  to  be  still, 

My  mother  lies  near  here  very  ill." 

None  answer   her.     The   noise   has   ceased, 
Their  passion  quickly  is  appeased, 
Mute  has  become  the  gypsy's  play, 
The  boys  in  silence  homeward  stray. 


TWILIGHT. 
(Alkony.) 


The  sun  is  like  a  withered  rose, 

Which,  dropping,  bends  her  weary  head. 

Her  leaves,  just  like  his  pallid  rays, 
With  sad  smiles  o'er  the  landscape  spread. 

Mute  and  calm  the  world  around  me 

I  hear  the  distant  curfew  bell; 
From  heaven  or  dreamland  come  the  sweet 

And  distant  sounds,  I  cannot  tell. 

Attentively  I    list,   I   love 

Sweet    reveries'   adagios: 
God  knows  what  I  feel  and  feel  not— 
And  where  my  mind,  God  only  knows. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  257 

AUNT  SARAH. 
(Sari  neni.) 


Upon  the  threshold   sits,  by  age  bent  down, 
Aunt  Sarah,  -bowing  low  her  silver  crown; 
An  eyeglass  rides  upon  her  bony  nose, 
I  fan'cy  her  own  funeral  shroud  she  sews. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally''  you  were  named  by  all? 

What  heretofore  she  did  in  dresses  wear — 
The  folds  and  creases — now  her  face  doth  bear; 
Clad  now  in  faded  rags,  her  dress  1  trow 
Must  have  been  new  some  twenty  years  ago. 
Aunt   Sarah,   do  you  still  the  days   recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  \vere  named  by  all? 

1    almost  freeze  when  I  behold  her  head,. 
Life's  winter  hath  thereon  its  white  snow  shed; 
And  like  a  stork's  nest  in  the  chimney  there, 
Looks  on  her  hoary  head  her  straggling  hair. 
Aunt   Sarah,   do  you   still  the  days   recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

Her  eyes,  once  bright,  have  left  their  native  place, 
Sunk  in,  and  beautify  no  more  her  face. 
They  faintly  flicker  in  a  ghastly  gloom, 
As  tapers  left  to  burn  in  some  death  room. 
Aunt   Sarah,   do  you   still  the  days   recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

A  barren  plain,  it  seems,  is  now  her  breast, 
As  if  beneath  not  e'en  a  heart  did  rest. 
Her  heart,  not  wholly  dead,  still  pulsates  there, 
And   sometimes  does  its  old  emotions  share. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 


258  ALEXANDER  PET3FI 

Youth  is  a  spendthrift,  who  will  freely  spend 
His  wealth  and  charms,  and  does  not  apprehend 
The  miser  father — Age — who  will  some  day 
Gather  the  treasures  spent,  take  them  away. 
.Aunt  Sarah,   do  you   still   the   days   recall, 
When  "Darling  bally"  you  were  named  by  all? 


HOMER  AND    OSSIAN. 


Where  is  the  Greek,  where  is  the  Celt? 
They  disappeared,  like  cities  dealt 
A   deathly   blow   by   ocean's   flow 
Which   swallowed  them,  we  only  know 
Where  once  they  stood,  because  we  sec 
Their  towers'   spires  above  the   sea, 
These  mighty  towers  still   seen  by  man, 
Are  you:    Homer   and   Ossian! 

A  beggar  one,  of  royal  blood 

The  other,  but  what   is  more  odd 

The   sinilarity   we   find: — • 

The  beggar  and  the  prince — both  blind! 

Who  knows,   did  not  both   lose   their  sight 

i>y  looking  in  the  dazzling  light 

Of  their  own  soul,  their  glory  bright? 

Great  geniuses  both!   Did  they 

With  magic  hand  on  their  lutes  play 

Divine   command  like,   they   to  build 

For  men   a  world,   which   their   mind   filled 

With   thoughts   inspiring,   wonderful, 

Sublimely   grand   and   beautiful? 

Did   you   hear   Homer?   In   his   song: 

The  thoundrous  bolts,   the,  passions  strong 

Eternal   smiles   of   peaceful  joy. 

With   dawn's   brightness   laughingly   toy, 


SELECTED  LYRICS  259 

The  midday  sun's  gold  rays  spread  o'er 
The  sea's  blonde  waves  and  o'er  the  shore 
Of   islands   green,   where   gently   play 
The   demigods   with  human  clay. 
Yea!    Mortal    men. — God's    from    above, — 
Unite  to  play  thy   plays:   sweet  love! 

And  did  you  e'er  to   Ossian  list? 

In   northern   sea's   eternal   mist. 

Above  wild  peaks,   when  thundrous  storms, 

In   dreadful   nights  the  shapeless   forms 

Let  loose!  his  clarion  voice  is  heard 

And  all  the  nature  seemeth  stirred. 

With  blooded   hues,  when  like  abed 

The  sun  had  gone,  the  moonrays  spread 

A  spectre  shroud  o'er  the  horrid  scene: 

The   field   o'er   which   the   marching,  ghosts, — 

Of  former  days'  the  warrior  hosts, — 

Led  by  their  captains  can  be  seen. 

All  that  is  light  and  fair  and  bright 
Is  in  thy  song,  thou  beggar-knight. 
Homer!  Thou  art  the  world's  delight. 

All  that  is  drear,  austere,  severe 
Is    in   thy   song   thou   royal    seer, 
Prince    Ossian!    to    mankind    dear 
Are  ye.   Homer  and   Ossian! 

Proceed!    Proceed   to   inspire   men 

With  your   immortal   songs!  and   when 

To    centuries,    milleniums. 

—Time    's    pitiless, — the    world    >tiecuml>s: 

Your   name,   your    fame   shall   e'«r  remain 

Untarnished,   your   laurels   retain 

Their   freshest   green!   and  great  you'll  be 

Till   time   's   lost   in  eternity! 


260  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

THE  MOON'S  ELEGY. 
(A  hold  elegiaja.) 


I  wonder  why  I  am  the  moon? 

My  God!  What  are  my  sins? 
Why  is  my  misery  so  great, 

Why  must  from  pain  I  vince? 
I'd  rather  be  earth's   humblest  slave, 

Than  here -proud  king  of  night, 
On  earth  in  sandals  walk,  than  here 

In  boots,  spurred  like  a  knight. 
I'd  rather  smell  the  barroom's  breath, 

Than   starry  flowers   scent; 
Is  there  a  good  man  who  does  not 

O'er  my  sad   fate  lament? 
Each  dog,  each  poet  barks  at  me- 

These   rhyming   whittlers    e'en 
Think,  out  of  sympathy  with  them 

I  am  so  pale-faced  seen. 
I,  sympathize  with  them,  whose  heart 

Is  unmoved,  but  whose  ears 
Move  to  the  tune  of  doggerel  verse 

One   from  these  fellows  hears? 
'Tis  true,  I  am  pale  faced,  howe'er 

I  am  ,not  so  from  woe!! 
It  is  from  wrothful  ire,  because 

Those  foolish  chumps  below 
Dare  kinship  claim,  and  look  on  me 

As  were  they  chums  of  mine, 
And  with  them  I  would  be  engaged 

In  guarding  herds  of  swine. 
Once  in  a  while  I  truly  hear 

A  God-born  son  of  song, 
And  blissfully  I  list  to  lays 

Which  rise  from  passions  strong. 
But  until   one   such   minstrel   sings, 

What   whinings    must   I    hear! 


SELECTED  LYRICb  261 

And   how   these  poetasters   thrive, 

And  how  they  persevere 
To  mew  and  blab!     At  evenings  I 

Do  actually  fear 
To  rise  because  their  screeching  song 

Is  sure  to  reach  my  ear. 
Just  as  I  thought!    There  's  one  right  here! 

Look  at  him!     How  he  sprawls, 
See-saws  the  air!     He  thinks  he  sings, 

In  truth  he  only  bawls. 
He  sighs  as  does  some  gipsy  lad 

Who  just  had  come  to  grief, 
I  wonder  if  his  moans  and  groans 

Bring  him  any  relief? 
What  things  he  talks!     Constantly  asks 

That   I   should  look  and  see 
What  does  just  now  his  sweetheart  do? 

All  right!     I  grant  his  plea. 
Well  then,  your  sweetheart  just  now  crawls 

Out  of  the  oven   door, 
Brings  forth  the  baked  potatoes  which 

She  had  put  in  before. 
She  eagerly  biters  into  one 

Oh!  what  a  face  she  makes! 
She  burned  her  lips,  her  yell  and  howl 

All  of  the  household  wakes! 
O!  What  a  face!  well  you  deserve 

To  have  such  just  a  belle! 
Now,  having  told  you  what  she  does 

There  's  but  one  thing  to  tell: 
Pray,  sing  no  more,  but  sneak  away 
And  go,  yes,  go  to  hell. 

A    ROSEBUSH    ON    THE    HILLSIDE    GROWS. 
(Rozsabokor  domboldalon.) 


A  rosebush  on  the  hillside  grows; 
Come;  darling,  on  my  breast  repose- 
Thy  love  then  whisper  in  my  ear, 
Let  me  that  joyful  story  hear! 


262  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Within   the   Danube's   rushing   waves, 
The  sun  it,  seems,  its  shadows  laves, 
And  o'er  them  sways  and  glows  in  glee, 
As  I  sway  thee  upon  my  knee. 

It  has  been  said  of  me,  that  I 

Am  atheist  and  God  deny; 

Yet  even  now  I  pray  intent, 

To  read  thy  heart-beats  I   am  bent. 


AT  THE  END  OF  SEPTEMBER. 
(Szeptember  vegen.) 

The  garden  flowers  still  blossom  in  the  vale, 

Before  our  house  the  poplars  still  are  green; 
But  soon  the  mighty  winter  will  prevail; 

Snow  is  already  on  the  mountain  seen- 
The   summer   sun's   benign   and   warming   ray 

Still  moves  my  youthful  heart,  now  in  its  spring; 
But  lo!  my  hair  shows  signs  of  turning  gray, 

The  wintry  days  thereto  their  colors  bring. 

This  life  is  short;   too  early  fades  the  rose; 

To  sit  here  on  my  knee,  my  darling,  come; 
Wilt  thou  who   on  my  breast  dost   now  repose, 

Xot   kneel,   perhaps   to-morrow   o'er   my  tomb? 
O!  tell  me,  if  before  thee  I   should  die, 

Wilt  thou.  with  broken   heart,  weep  o'er  my  bier, 
Or  will  some  youth  efface  my  memory, 

And  with  his  love  soon   dry  the  mournful  tear? 

If  thou  dost  lay  aside  the'  widow's  veil, 

Pray  hang  it  o'er  my  tomb.     At  midnight  I 
Shall  rise,  and,  coming  forth  from  death's  dark  vale 

Take  it  with  me  to  where,  forgot,  I  lie. 
And  stanch  with  it  my  ceaseless  flowing  tears, 

Flowing  for  thee  who  hast  forgotten  me, 
And  bind  my  bleeding  heart,  which  ever  bears, 

Kvcn  then  and  there,  the  truest  love  for  thee. 


SKLKCTK1)  LYRICS  263 

MASTER   PATO. 
(Pato   Pal  ur.) 


Like   an   enchanted  prince,   beyond 
The  famous  Xowhere's  mighty  pond, 
Lives  in   a   hamlet  all   alone, 
A    -Mister    Pato,   grouchy  grown. 
Ah!  what  could  be  made  of  this  life: 
Would  there  be   here  a  young,  fair  wife, 
-Master   Pato's   answer  is: 
"We  have  lots  of  time  for  this!" 

The   ancient   home   threatens   to   fall: 
The  plaster   's  peeled  of  from   the   wall, 
The   winds   took   of  the   roof  a   piece, 
And  now  and  then  a  shutter  seize, 
Let's  make  repairs,  or  by  and  by, 
We'll  through  the  ceiling  view  the  sky. 
Master    Pato's    answer   is: 
"\Ye   have  lots  of  time  for  this!" 

The  garden   's  bare,   howe'er  the   field, 
Does   all   the   richer   harvest   yield 
Of  poppies   and   dandolines, 
And   choicest   weeds   of  all   designs. 
Why   do   the   farm   hands   hang,  around? 
Why  's   rust  upon  the   ploughshares  found? 
Master   Pato's   answer   is: 
"We  have  lots  of  time  for  this!" 

His    fur-cloak   and    his    pantaloon. 
So  threadbare  are  that  both   shall  soon 
Just  fit  but   for  mosquito  nets, 
Does    ever    he    new   garment   gets? 
The  stuff  has  been  bought  long  ago, 
The  tailor  must  be  sent  for  though. 
Master   Pato's   answer   is: 
••\Ye  have  lots  of  time  for  this!" 


264  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And   thus   he   passes   all  his   days. 

His  fathers  gave  him  means  and  ways. 

And   rich  inheritance,  but  he 

Of  misery   is   never   free. 

Look  not  upon  his  faults  with  scorn: 

As  a  Magyar  he  was  born, 

And    his   country's   motto   is: 
"We  have  lots  of  time  for  this!" 


ON  A  RAILROAD. 
(Vasuton.) 


I    am   in    raptures,   happy,   gay: 

Glorious  scenes  now  greet  my  eye. 
Only  the  birds  ere  now  could  fly, 

But  men  can  also  fly  to-day. 

Fleet-winged   thought   or  venturous   mind, 
We'll  in  the  race  with  you  compete. 
Spur  on  your  horse!     A  splendid  heat! 

We  shall,  withal,  leave  you  behind. 

Hills  and  vales,  seas,  men  and  trees, 
What  else   I   pass  God   only  knows; 
My  wonder,  my  amazement  grows, 

Viewing  these-  misty  sceneries. 

The  sun  runs  with  us  as  in  dread 

Of  quick  pursuit — a  madman's  thought — 
By  devils  who,  if  him  they  caught. 

Into  small  fragments  then  would  shred. 

He  ran  and  ran  and  onward  fled. 
But  all  in  vain!     He  had  to  stop, 
Tired,  on  a  western  mountain  top; 

Blushing  with  shame,  his  face  is  red. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  265 

But  in  our   ride  we  still  proceed; 

We  weary   not,   feel  no  fatigue; 

And,  rolling  up  league  after  league. 
To  reach  new  worlds  shall  yet  succeed. 

A   thousand  railroads  men  shall  build 
Throughout  the  earth,  till  endless  chains 
Or  iron  lines,  like  human  veins,  t 

The  world  with   healthy  life  have  filled. 

The  railroads  arc  the  veins  of  earth; 
Culture   and   progress   prosper  where 
They  cause   pulsations  in   the  air; 

To   nation's   greatness   they  give   birth   . 

Build   railroads,  more   than  heretofore; 

You  ask  whence  you  shall  iron  take? 

The  chains  and  yokes  of  slavery  break; 
Let  human  slavery  be  no  more! 


MY  WIFE  IS  DEAD. 
(Meghalt   a   felesegem.) 


My   wife    I    loved    is   dead, 

Satis  tarde  quidem, 
All  1113^  hopes  have  fled, 

Debuisset  pridem. 
As   housewife   she  was   fine 

Cuncta  dissipavit, 
She  hated  beer  and  wine 

But   semper   potavit- 
Oh!    thou    most   cruel    death. 

Cum    sero   venisti? 
Where's  my  Elizabeth! 

Quam  bene  fecisti! 
To  church   I   wend  my  way, 

Adibo  popinam! 


266  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

And  for  her  soul  I'll  pray, 

Moerorem  deponam! 
I  wish  she  would  return, 

Quod   Deus  avertat. 
I'd  fast,  my  meals  I'd  spurn, 

Ut  ibi  maneat. 
I'd  hold  her  in   esteem, 

Crinium   tractibus, 
To  kiss  her,  my  one  dream 

Per  dorsum  fustibus 
What  am  I  now  to  do? 

Ducam  pulchriorem, 
I'll  say  to  the  world  adieu, 

Quaeram   meliorem! 


MY  MOTHERS   HEN. 
(Anyam  tyukja.) 


Well,  this  is  rich!  The  hen  housed  in  the  room! 

Good  mother  hen,  art  happy  I   presume- 

God  has  been  good  to  thee  to  be  kept,  where 
My  own  good  mother  takes  of  thee  good  care. 

Right   here  thou  art  allowed  to  hop   around, 
On  trunk  and  table   e'en  thou  hast  been  found. 
Right  in  the  room  thou  hast  been  cackling  loucl, 
And  not  chased  out,   to  stay  thou  wert  allowed. 

They  would   not   chase   thee   out,   oh   no!   indeed! 

As  if  thou  wert  a  'dove,  the  choicest  feed 

Is  sought  for  thee,  fine  grains  of  corn  and  wheat, 
Xo  prince  receives  more  wholesome  food  to  eat. 


SELECTED  LYRICS  267 

But  then,  good  mother-hen,  for  all  this,  I 
Expect  of  thee  that  thou  wilt  truly  try 

For  my  own  mother   each   and   every  day; 

— She   needs   it,   don't   forget! — fresh   eggs   to   lay. 

And  now,  my  short-tailed  dog,  I  talk  to  thee, 
Just  prick  thy  ears  and  listen  now  to  me: 
A  faithful   servant  thou  hast  been  till  now, 
And  always  well  behaved,   I   must  allow. 

Just  list',  my  good  old  dog  and  don't  forget, 
For  chicken  meat  thy  teeth  thou  must  not  whet- 
Thou  and  this  hen  must  e'er  as  friends  be  known, 
My  mother  does   no  other  chicken   own. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 
(Nemzeti  dal.) 


Rise,  Magyar;  'tis  the  country's  call! 
The  time  has  come,  say  one  and  all: 
Shall   we   be   slaves,   shall   we   be   free? 
This  is   the   question,   now   agree! 
For  by  the  Magyar's   God  above 

We   truly   swear, 
We  truly   swear  the   tyrant's  yoke 

Xo   more   to   bear! 

Alas!   till  now  we  were  but   slaves; 
Our    fathers    resting   in    their   graves 
Sleep  not  in  freedom's  soil.     In  vain 
They  fought  and  died  free  homes  to  gain. 
But  by  the   Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No   more  to   bear! 


268  ALEXANDER  EETOFI 

A   miserable   wretch   is   he 
Who  fears  to  die,  my  land,  for  thee! 
His  worthless  life  who  thinks  to  be 
Worth  more  than  thou,  sweet  liberty! 
Now  by  the   Magyar's   God  above 

We  truly  swear, 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No   more   to   bear! 


The  sword  is  brighter  than  the  chain, 
Men  cannot   nobler  gems   attain; 
And  yet  the   chain  we   wore,   oh,   shame! 
Unsheath  the  sword   of  ancient  fame! 
For  by  the  Magyar's   God  above 

We  truly  swear, 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No   more   to   bear! 


The  Magyar's  name  will  soon  once  more 
Be   honored  as   it   was  before! 
The  shame  and  dust  of  ages  past 
Our  valor  shall  wipe  out  at  last. 
For  by  the  Magyar's   God  above 

We  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No   more   to   bear! 


And  where  our  graves  in  verdure  rise 
Our   children's   children   to   the   skies 
Shall  speak  the  grateful  joy  they  feel, 
And  bless  our  names  the  while  they  kneel- 
For  by  the  Magyar's   God  above 

We  truly  swear. 

We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 
No   more   to   bear! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  269 

MY  WIFE  AND  MY  SWORD. 

(Felesegem  es  kardom.) 


Upon   the   roof  a   dove, 

A  star  within  the  sky 
Upon  my  knees  my  love, 

For  whom   I   live   and  die; 
In  raptures   I   embrace 

And  rock  her  on  my  knees, 
Just  as  the   dewdrop   sways 

Upon  the   leafy  trees. 

But  why,  you  surely  ask, 

Kiss  not  her  pretty  face? 
It  is  an  easy  task 

To  kiss  while  we  embrace! 
Many  a  burning  kiss 

I.    press   upon   her  lip, 
For  such  celestial  bliss 

1   cannot  now  let  slip. 

And  thus  we  pass  our  day, 

I   and  my  winsome  wife, 
Bright  as  a  rare  gem's  ray 

Has    been   our   wedded   life. 
A   friend — my   sword — it  seems 

This  love  likes  not  at  all; 
He   shoots   his  angry  gleams 

Upon  me  from  the  wall. 

Lock  not  on  me,  good  sword, 

With  eyes  so  stern  and  cold, 
There  should  be  no  discord 

Between  us,  comrades  old. 
To  women  leave  such  things 

As   green-eyed  jealousy; 
To  men  but  shame  it  brings, 

And  you  a  man  must  be! 


270  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

But,  then,  if  you  would  pause 

To   think  who   is   my  love, 
You   never  would  see  cause 

Your  comrade  to  reprove 
She   is  the   sweetest  maid 

She  is  so  good,  and  true; 
Like  her,  God  has  but  made, 

1    know,    a   very    few. 

If  thee,  good  sword,  again 

Shall  need  our  native  land; 
To    seek   the    battle-plain 

Will  be  my  wife's  command. 
She  will  insist  that  I 

Go  forth,  my  sword,  with  thee, 
To  fight — if  need,  to  die — 

For  glorious  liberty! 


THE  FALLEN  STATUE. 
(A  ledolt  szobor.) 


A  monument  stood  on  a  mountain  high; 
So  lofty  was  the  mount,  seemed  to  the  sky 
To  reach;  the  clouds  its  girding  belt  suggest, 
The  noon  sun   on   its   shoulders  took  his  rest. 

Upon   this  mountain   top,  a   monument 

In  bronze,  majestic  and  magnificient 

Stood.     There  he  holds  a  sword  to  action  drawn, 

And  waves  aloft  a  banner  to  the  dawn. 

How  came   this   statue   to   the   mountain   top? 
Fell  it  from  heaven?     Did  rhen   carry  it  up? 
If  heaven-born,  'tis  sacred  all  the  time; 
If   built  by   men,   still   more   is   it   sublime 


SELECTED  LYRICS  27 \ 

It  was  the  joint  work  of  earth  and  heaven. 
To  mortal  men's  toil  God   His  help  hath  given; 
Miriad  hands,   at   work   for  centuries, 
Achieved   the    shaping   of   this   masterpiece. 

l>nt  it   was   done!     The   statue  stood  erect  . 
All    Europe  looked   at  it   with   deep  respect. 
All   knees   bend   low,    some   with   esteem   sincere, 
While   others   crawl   in   dust,   impelled  by  fear. 

The   mountain    stands,   though   barren   is   its   crown. 
But   where's   the   monument?     Did   its   renown 
The    heavens   covet,    and    from    here   below 
Transplanted   it    into    its    realm?     But   no! 

An  earthquake  came,  which   shook  it  from  its  base, 
And  then  the  storm-wind  swept  it  from  its  place, 
Till    thundering   it   fell.      The   statute's   now 
Down   in   the  valley,   swallowed  by  the  slough. 

My   fatherland!      Thou   saintly   monument! 
Dragged    into   the    mire,    all    impotent. 
Three   hundred   years   unmercifully   bled. 
Then    left   in    the   foul    swamp, — a   living   dead! 

Around   thy   head,  which   once  the  stars  on   high 
With   gems   to   deck   would  with   each   other  vie, 
Came  worms  of  earth  to  crawl.     It  was  supposed 
That  bled  to  death  thy  life's  career  hath  closed. 

My    fatherland!      Beloved    fatherland! 

What   sentiment   was   it,   that   I.   unmanned 

By   gruesome   recollections   of   the   past, 

Felt   my   heart  quiver   like  a   wind-tossed  mast? 

Our  woe  begone!  Our  doelful  days  are  o'er! 

The   saintly   monument   which    we   adore 

We  rescued   from   the  slough   into  the  air 

Of   light    and    freedom    and    the    sun's    bright   glare! 


272  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Come  one!   come  all!     Let  us   its  body  clean, 
Untarnished  shall  it  be,  as  it  has  been 
Of  yore!    Come  all!    The  women  with  their  tears, 
Men  with  their  blood  to  wash  the  scars  and  sears. 

When  in  the  former  splendor  it  shall  shine, 
We  can  retire  to  rest,  dear  friends  of  mine. 
But  no!     Not   even  then!     New  tasks   a.wait 
Our   undivided   efforts   for  the   state. 

\Ve  must  replace  the  statue  on  the  height 
Where  once  it  stood  in  glorious   splendor  bright! 
From  whence  with  sword  and  battle  flag,  unfurled, 
Looked  dignified  on  the  admiring  world! 

Up,   all  of  you,  my  nation's  sires  and  sons! 
Disgrace  on  him  who  now  his  duty  shuns. 
Esteem  is  his  who  truly  pays  his  dues: 
Disgrace, — esteem! — between  the  two  now  choose! 


THE  GOD  OF  THE  MAGYARS. 
(A  magyarok  istene.) 


Away,  ye   narrow  minds,   who   even   now 

Dare   harbor   doubts   about   the   future's  days; 

For  who  will  not  a  mighty  God  -avow, 
His  loving  care  for  our  home  who  gainsays? 

The   times,    the   people's   tempests,    dire   and    dread, 
Is  held  by   Him   in   His  parental  care; 

For  centuries  He  has  upheld  our  Land, 
To  fight  the  robber  foe  from  everywhere. 

The  times,  the  people's  tempests,  dire  an  dread, 
Would  have  scattered  us,  as  if  we  were 

But  dust;   His  saintly,  wings  were  o'er  us  spread — 
The  gales  past  o'er  our  heads — and  all  was  fair. 


SELECTED   LYRICS  273 

The  volumes  of   our   story  read,   you'll   trace 

His  power  divine  on  every  page  thereof; 
Like  golden  thread  runneth   His  kindly  grace 

Throughout  our  life,  which  he  hath  blessed 

with  love. 
And  thus  we  lived  the  thousand  years  that  passed; 

And  should  these  thousand  years  have  lasted  but 
That  now,  when  we  have  reached  the  port,  the  last 

Waves  shall  us  all  unsparingly  englut? 

Not  for  a  moment  think  that  this  can  be; 

It   would  be   sacrilege  to  think  this   e'en. 
No  human  being  would,  of  course  not  He, 

U^pon  His  children  play  a  trick  so  mean. 

The   Magyar   nation   sinned,   her   sins  were  great; 

For   all    transgressions    though    she    did  atone. 
She   has   had  virtues,  too;   rewards  await 

Her  still — rewards  the  future  can't  postpone. 

Thou,  my  dear  home,  wilt  live  because  thou  must! 

Sweet  joys  and  glory  be  henceforth  thy  share! 
Forever  freed  of  woe  and  care,  'tis  just 

To  look  expectant  toward  a  dawn  most  fair. 


FAREWELL. 
(Bucsu.) 


The  sun   had   hardly  dawned,  when  lo!  it  set. 

I  had  but  come,  and  now  I  must  depart. 
Scarce  had  I  time  to  greet  and  kiss  thee,  dear, 

When  duty  calls  and  we  again  must  part- 
God's   blessing  on   you,   pretty   little  wife. 
Good-bye,  my  heart,  my,  love,  my  soul,  my  life! 


274  ALEXANDER  PETGF1 

I  carry  now  the  sword  and  not  the  lute, 
The  minstrel  as  a   soldier  now  must   fight. 

A  golden  star  hath  led  me  heretofore, 

The   blood-red   sky  is   now  my  guiding  light 

God's   blessing  on   you,   pretty   little   wife, 

Good-bye,  my   heart,   my,   love,   my   soul,  my  life! 

*'Tis  not  ambition  which  prompts  me  to  leave; 

No  laurels  rest  where  thou  the  roses  red 
Of  happiness   hast   placed   upon  my  brow, 

Which   1   shall  never  take  from  off  my  head. 
God's   blessing  on   you,   pretty   little   wife, 
Good-bye,  my   heart,   my,  love,   my   soul,   my  lifejt 

""Pis  not  ambition  which  prompts  me  to  leave; 

•Thou    know'st   ambition    died   within   my    soul. 
'Tis   for  my   fatherland   I    sacrifice 

My   life   upon   the  field  where  cannons   roll. 
Gnd's    blessing   on   you,   pretty    little   wife, 
Good-bye,   my   heart,   my,   love,   my   soul,   my  life! 

If  none  my  dearest  country   should  defend, 
Alone  I   would  defend  her  with  all  might; 

Now,  when   all   rise  to   seek  the   battle  plains, 
Shall    I    remain   at   home,  afraid   to   fight? 

God's   blessing   on   you,    pretty   little   wife, 

Good-bye,  my   heart,   my,   love,   my   soul,  my  life! 

I   ask  thee  not  to  think  of  me  when  gone, 
The  while  I   fight   for  fatherland  and  thee; 

Mjy  love  to  thee  is  pure  and  well  I  know 

One    thought    alone    thou    hast,    and    that    for   me. 

God's    blessing   on   you,    pretty   little   wife, 

G<>nd-bye,  my  heart,   my,   love,   my   soul,   my   life! 

Perchance  a  crippled   wreck  1   shall   come  home, 
But  thou,  my  darling  wife,   wilt  love   me   still; 

For,  by  our  God,   when    1    return,  the   same 
Pure   love,  as   now,   my  heart   shall   ever   thrill. 

God's   blessing   on   you.    pretty   little   wife. 

Good-bye,  my   heart,   my,   love,   my   soul,   my   life! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  275 

THE  AUTUMN  HAS  COME... 
(Itt  van  az  osz,  itt  van  ujra.) 


Autumn  has  come,  autumn  's  here 
Beauteous  always,  spreading  cheer, 
Heaven   only   knows   the   reason, 
Why,  but  I  best  love  this  season. 

I   sit  upon  a  nearby  mound, 
Whence    I    with   leisure   look  around, 
Softly  murmur  in  the  breeze 
The  sere  leaves  falling  from  the  trees, 

A-smilling   spreads   these   autumn   days 
All  o'er  the  earth,  the  sun  his  rays, 
The  loving  mother  will   thus  gaze 
Upon    her   sleeping  offspring's   face, 

This  is  not  death  o'er  which  we  weep, 
The   earth   in   autumn   's   but  asleep. 
All  nature  shows  it  is  not  dead, 
It  rests  awhile  its  weary  head. 

It   quietly  disrobes,    the  gay 
Dress  of  summer  's  put  away. 

Its  flow'ry  dress  again   will  don 
When  roused  from  sleep  by  springtide's  sun, 

Then   sleep  fair  nature,  gently  sleep, 
Till  o'er  the  earth  spring's  breezes  sweep, 
And  dream  the  brightest  golden  dreams 
Of  sunlit  fields  and  laughing  streams, 

My  lute  tiitu-lu-d  by  my  finger  tips, 

A  song  arises  on  my  lips, 

A   lullaby   for  thee  we  sing, 

Fair  nature  sleep!  sleep  till  the  spring! 


276  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Come  here,  sit  close  to  me  my  fay, 

But  silent  be,  until  my  lay 

Dies  out  as  dies  the  breeze  which  blows 
Above  the  stream  which  yonder  flows. 


I 


nd  when  we  kiss,  thy  lips,  I  trust 
ut  gently  touch  my  own,  we  must 
Not  nature,  which  is  gone  to  rest, 
In  her  sweet  autumn   sleep  molest. 


HERE  IS  MY  ARROW. 
(Itt   a   nyilam . . . ) 


Here  is  my  arrow!  what  shall  I  hit? 
The  king  upon  his  throne  doth  sit- 
His  royal  self  'my  aim!   I   trust 
My  aim  was  sure,  he  bites  the  dust. 
Xow  raise  a  cheer! 
For  the  republic  cheer! 

The  crowns  are  very  costly  things, 
Unfit  for  it  are  all  the  kings, 

Crown  for  the  kings?     Why  should  we  straddle 
A  donkey  with  a  velvet   saddle? 
Xow  raise  a  cheer! 
For  the  republic  cheer! 

His  purple  regal  cloak  we'll  take 
For  what  it  is  best  fit  to  make 

Therefrom:  we  make  from  it,  of  course, 
A  blanket  for  a  good   old  horse. 
Now  raise  a  cheer! 
For- the  republic  cheer! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  277 

The  sceptre  in  his  iron  fist 
We  wrest  from  him,  let  us  insist 
That  he  a  spade  and  shovel  take 
Wherewith  his  own  grave  he  shall  make 
Now  raise  a  cheer! 
For  the  republic  cheer! 

One  only  thing,  I   say  just  now: 
We    have    been    foolish:    I    allow, 

Henceforth  we  shall  have  better  sense, 
Hold  in   contempt  the   king's  pretense! 
Now  raise  a  cheer! 
For  the  republic  cheer! 


WHO   WOULD   BELIEVE? 
(Ki  gondolna! . .) 


Who  would  believe  that  on  this  plain 
A  few  weeks  since  two  armies  stood, 

Engaged  in  fierce,  destructive  fight. 
Drenching  the  country  with  their  blood? 

A  direful  day  it  was  throughout, 
Foe  facing  here,  foe  charging  there, 

Death  in  the  van  death   in  the  rear; 
Sabres  were  flashing  in  the  air. 

Then,   like  a  troubled  brow4 

The  sky  was  cloudy,  dark  and  wild. 

Now  it  looks  pleasant,  like  the  smik 
Upon  the  bright  face  of  a  child. 

The   earth  was  like  a  hoary  head: 
Covered  with  snow  was  all  the  scene; 
Now  like  the  hopes  of  ardent  youth 
The  earth  is  dressed  in  brightest  green. 


278  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

Then  bullets  whistled  through  the  air, 
We  heard  the  mighty  cannon's  roll; 

Above  us  now  the  nightingale 

Pours  out  in  song  her  lovebound  soul. 

Wherever  then  we  cast  our  eyes 

We   only  saw   death's   ghastly   show; 

But  now  the   sweetest-scented  flowers 
In  beauteous   efflorescence  grow. 

Who  would  believe  that  on  this  plain 
A  few  weeks  since  two  armies  stood, 

Engaged  in  fierce,   destructive  fight, 

Drenching  the  country  with  their  blood? 


WAR   SONG. 
(Csatadal.) 


The  trumpets  blare,  drums  beat  the  call: 
Our  boys   are   off  to   fight   or  fall; 

Forward! 

The  bullets  whistle,  sabres  clash 
And  rouse   the   Magyar  spirit   rash. 

Forward! 

May  freedom's  flag  wave  on  the  hight, 
That  all  the  world  behold  the  sight! 

Forward! 

Unfurl  the  flag!  the  world  shall  see 
The  proud  inscription,  "Liberty!" 

Forward! 

The  world  the  Magyar  valor  knows, 
He  bravely  faces  all  his  foes: 
Forward! 


SELECTED  LYRICS  279 

A  virtue  God  the  Magyar  gave; 
He  made  his  nature  truly  brave: 
Forward! 

Upon  a  gory  ground  I  tread, 

A  comrade's  blood  has  made   it  red: 

Forward! 

A  hero  he!  Can  I  be  less? 
Boldly  onward  let  me  press: 

Forward! 

If    our  blood  this  earth  must  blot, 
If  even  to  die  here  be  our  lot: 

Forward! 

For  thee   our  lives  we   freely  give, 
Dear  Fatherland,  that  them  shalt  live! 

Forward! 


IN   MY   NATIVE   LAND. 
(Sziilofoldemen.) 


This  landscape   fill*   my  heart   with   thrilling  joy; 
Here,  years  ag».    I    dwelt,  a  happy  hoy: 
Here  was  I  born,  in  this  fair  village-place; 
I   yet   recall   my   dear  old   nurse's   face; 
Her  simple  cradle  song  sounds  ever  near, 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 

Wihen  still  a  child  I  went  abroad  to  roam; 
Now,  a  grown   man,    again    I    seek   my   home; 
Ah!  twenty  years  since  then  have  passed  away. 
'Mid  joy  and  sorrow,  yea,  'mid  toil  and  play. 
For  twenty  years  it  echoed  in  my  ear, 
And  "Mayfly,  ydl"\v   Mayfly"  still    1    hear. 


280  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

My   early  playmates   all,  where   now   are  ye? 

If  one  of  you  'twere  mine  again  to  see, 

Most   lovingly   I'd   clasp   him   to   my  breast, 

The  thought  that  I  grow  old  would  be  suppressed 

Yet  this  is  now  my  five-and-twentieth  year, 

And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 

As  fleet-winged  birds  flit  round  from  bough  to  bough 
So  do  my  restless  thoughts  flit  backward ^now; 
As  sweets   are  gathered  by   the   honey-bees, 
So  do  my  musings   call   glad   memories — 
Each  pleasant  spot  of  old  to  me  is  dear — 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  1   he'ar- 

I  am  a  child,  1   am  a  child  again; 

I   romp  about,  whistling  an  old  refrain — 

Upon   a    hobby-horse    1    ride,    my    horse 

Is  thirsty,   to  the  trough   I   ride  of  course. 

It   drank   enough,   now   "g,o"   I    say  with   cheer 

And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I   hear. 

The   sun   has   almost   run   his   daily   course, 

Tired  are  rider  and  his  hobby-horse. 

Yes,   I   go   home.  Upon  my  nurse's  breast    ' 

Her  lullaby  half  lulls  to  drowsy  rest, 

As  from  her  lips  I  catch  the  cadence  clear, 

And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still   I   hear. 


THE  DREAM. 
(Az  alom.) 


The    dream 

Is  nature's  gift  to  man  most  dear, 

His  fondest  hopes    fulfilled    appear; 

The  poor  man  dreaming,  feeleth  not 

That  he  enhungered  is  or  cold; 

In  purple  dressed  he  thinks  his  hut 

A  mansion  filled  with  wealth  untold. 


SELECTED    LYRICS  .281 

The  king  in  dreams 

Can  neither  judge  nor  grace  bestow, 

In   sleep,   alike   are   high   and  low. 

The  youth,  while  dreaming,  rolls  in  bliss, 

His  sweetheart  gives  arid  takes  sweet  kiss; 

But  when  I  dream  it  seems  to  me 

I    fight   for  the   world's   liberty! 


I  PARTED  FROM  THE  LITTLE  GIRL.. 
(Elvaltam  a  leanykatol.) 


From  the  little  girl  I  parted, 

My  darling  sweetheart  who  had  been. 
Our  last  kiss  left  me  broken  hearted, 

The  parting's  sorrow  was  most  keen. 
Ah,  well!   this   happened  long  ago! 
The   tide    and   time   though   ceaseless   flow, 

The  parting's  bitter  woe  they  heal, 
.1   do  not  feel  it  any  more. 
The  sweetness  of  that  'kiss  of  yore 

I'll  not  forget!   e'en  now  I   feel. 


THE    POET'S    MONOLOGUE. 
(Kolto  lenni  vagy  nem  lenni.) 


May  they  be  damned,  may  they  be  cursed, 
The  moments  when  conceived  and  nursed 
I  had  been  into  life  by  her, — 
To   my  poor  mother   I   refer — 


282  ALEXANRER  PETOFI 

To  be  a  bard,  a  man  of  woe. 
Poetry!  thou  art, we  know, 
To  the  candid  human  heart 
The  false  and  spiteful   counterpart 
Of  spider's   web,  which  pitiless 
Restrains  us  in  its  vile  duress. 

This   spider  with  its  venomous   fangs 
Imbibed  much  of  my  blood.     The  pangs 
Caused  by  the  meshes'  knotty  ties 
I  do  not  heed.     I  sacrifice 
My   heart,   if   while   I   undertake 
The  tainted-twisted  mesh  to  break, 
J   find  these   spiders'   snares   entwine 
This  throbbing-tortured  heart  of  mine, 
That  I  must  pluck  it  out!     Ah  me! 
I  yield  it  up!   I'  must  be  free. 

But  with  my  blood,  oh  no,  indeed 
This  murd'rous  insect  I'll  not  feed... 
What  compensation  is  in  store 
For  all  the  heart's  blood  I   outpour? 
Some   worthless    fame   or    work    renown, 
Or  even  of  fair  glory's  crown? 
All  of  this  is  but  dazzling  naught, 
Not  worth  to  sacrifice  one  brought; 
And  at  the  'best,  where  is  the  bard 
Secure  e''en  of  this  poor  reward? 

Henceforth   within    thy   shores.     I    race 

O!   ordinary  commonplace 

And  with   thy  tranquil  water's   flow 

I   peacefully  my  wont  ways  go. 

There  is  no  fear  I  hit, a  reef, 

Or  mine  be   even  a  single  leaf 

Of  laurel  wreath;   fame  and  repute 

Will  not  be  mine  and   destitute 

Of  bliss  I'll  be,  but  Til  have  rest 

And  this  itself  does  bliss  suggest. 


SELKCTKI)    LYRICS  283 

Shall  all  my  life  I  mute  remain, 

To  song  though  tuned  my  heart  and  brain? 

My  very  life  an  instrument, 

Of  tuneful  song,  shall  it  be  sent 

Into  oblivion?  Fore'er 

Must  I   forego  what  's  sweet. and  fair? 

Not  sing  with  joy,  my  woes  be  mute 

Forevermore   discard  my  lute? 

Can  ought  the   ocean's   roaring  wave 

Command   to  be  still  as  the  grave? 

I'll  not  be  mute,  poetry,  no! 
Because  to  sing   I   can't  forego, 
I   nurture  thee  with  the  free  flood 
Of   my   tormented   heart's   best   blood. 
I  do  not  care  what  is  my  fate, 
Remain  unknown  or  plaudits  wait 
My  songs  I'll  sing  and  sing  again. 
Inspired  by  joy,   by   hallowed   pain 
I'll  sing  until  my  latest  breath, 
Until  my  voice  is  stilled  by  death. 


THE  BEGGAR  S  GRAVE. 
(A    koldus    sirja.) 


A  wild  beast  like   who  feels  his  death  is   nigh. 

The   hoary   beggar   went   into   the   plain, 
That  in   the  prairy's  heart  might   himself  hie 

To   die,   and   until   then   unknown   remain. 

"Poor  lads"  who  found  his  corpse  had  dug  a  hole 
And  threw  the  body  in.     The  beggar's  staff 

\\"a-  used  then  for  a  slab,  upon  the  pole 
They  hung  his  bag;  that' was  his  epitaph. 


2'84  ALEXAXRER  PETOFI 

Where  in  the  desert  not  a  tree  e'er  grows 
The  tiny  hill  stands  with  its  unique  sign: 

Fair  nature-  who  on  all  thy  aid  bestows, 
Makest  that  grass  and  wild  flowers  entwine 


That  lonely  grave-     And   such   is  fate: 

Once  in  his  life  he  rags  and  patches  wore. 

While   now   the   glorious    sun   did   decorate 

His  grave  with  flowers  fair  from  nature's  store. 


To  'him  'tis  all  the  same,  it  matters  though 
A  great  deal,  that  he  now  had  found  his  rest. 

Who  knows  what  perils  did  he  undergo, 

What  fateful  tasks  he  was  forced  to  contest? 


The  hand,  with  which  he  used  when  hoary  grown 
As  a  support  that  knotty,  stout,  good  cane, 

When  youth,  force  and  strength  had  been  his  own: 
Had  drawn  a  bright  sword  on  the  battle  plain. 


He  had  been  there,  the  midst  of  bloody  strife! 

And  of  his  precious  blood  he  freely  gave, 
Fought  for  his  master's  power  and  pelf  and  life 

Who  let  him  famished  then  go  to  his  grave. 

Well,  he  is  dead...    Forgotten  now  is  all. 

The   misery,   also   the   battle   cries. 
A  deadly  silence  reigns  Which   doth   appal. 

And  undisturbed  in  dreamless  sleep  he   lies- 

But  now  and  then  a  songbird  will  descend 
Upon  that   staff  and  warble   with   a   glee. 

What  song  might  sing  that  tiny  feathered  friend 
Where  on  the  slab  a  beggar's  bag  we  see? 


SELECTED    LYRICS  285 

THE   STORK. 
(A  golya.) 


We   have  all   kinds   of   birds,   and   man 

Prefers    one    for   its   plumage    bright 
Or  for  the  song  wherewith  it  can 

The  human  heart  fill  with  delight. 
The   bird   I   love   best  can   not   sing. 

Is  not  a  gaudy  feathered  thing 
But  like  myself,  is  back  and  white, 

Without  a  beauteous  tail  or  wing. 

The  stork  's  my  favorite,  like  me 
He  dwells  upon  his  lowland's  planis, — 

My  own  dear  home-  —  Still  it  might  be 
That  it  my  heart's  best  love  enchains 

Because   I've  known   him  long.     When   I 

Yet  in  my  cradle  whined,  his  cry 
1  heard,  my  mind  e'en  now  retains, 

His  crackling  call  when  he  rose  high. 

My   childhood's  years  were  his.     My  mind 

Was   serious  e'en  when  a  lad. 
While  chums  of  mine  would  pleasure  find 

To  drive  the  herd,  I  felt  most  glad 
When  from  a  nearby  hay  stack  viewed 
The  trials  of  the  stork's  young  brood, 

As   they   their   flying   lessons   had 
To  rise  to  higher  altitude. 

The  thought  arose   then  in  my  brain, 

I   cogitated  long  and   deep: 
Why  did  not  providence  ordain 

That  man  too  through  the  air     may  sweep 
Like  birds.     True,  we  can  walk,  but  I 
Aspired  on  wings  to  rise  and  fly, 

Instead  upon  the  earth  to  creep, 
I   longed   to   reach   the   starry,  sky. 


286  ALEXAXRER  PETflFI 

I   longed  to  reach  the  starry  hight; 

I   envied  e'en  the  sun  who  spread 
A  covering  of  brightest  light 

Over  our  own  earth's   hoary  head. 
His  heart's  blood  pours  out  every  eve' 
What  mean   reward, — it  made  me  grieve — 

To  stab  those  who  lignt's  pathways  tread 

Fair  autumn   season's  golden   days 

The  children  joyously  salute, 
Good   motherlike   the   season  lays 

Into   their    baskets    luscious    fruit. 
The  autumn  is  no   friend  of  mine 
I  told  him  "keep  your  fruit  and  wine 

And  scare  not  off  my  stork,  you  brute!" 

I  felt  depressed  when  I  then  saw 
Them  gather  and  begin   their  flight; 

As  for  my  wasted  youth,  with  awe 
Looked  after  them  and  felt  contrite, 

Upon  the  roof  the  empty  nest 

With  melancholy  filled  my  breast, 
As  if  some  mystic  breath  the  sight 

Of  my  own  future  would  suggest. 

With   winter  gone,   earth   casts   away 
Its  heavy  coat  of  snowy  white, 

It  dons  for  spring  a  waistcoat  gay, 

Embroidered  green  and  light  and  bright: 

In  springtide's  days  my  own  soul  too 

Will  clad   itself   in   vestments   new, 
To  meet  the  stork,  I   with  delight, 

Went   forth    into   the   distant   blue. 

When  later  on,   the   spark   afire: 
The  boy  a  youth-to-be   had  grown. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  earth  's  a  pyre. 
And  I  resolve  not  to  lie  prone: 

I    mount  a   horse,  as  if  the  pace 


SELECTED    LYRICS  287 

For  blowing  wind  I'd  make,  1  race, 

The  reins  e'en  of  my  horse  I've  thrown, 
-My    swift   run   's   o'er  the   puszta's   face. 

I   love   the   puszta;   't  is  where   1 

Feel  always  home,  where  I  am  free, 

Where    when    ]    cast   about   my   eye 
Naught  will   impede  its  sight,     i   see 

Xo  mighty  cliffs  and   rocks  which  look 

Like  threatening  ghosts,  hear  not  the  brook 
A-murmuring   roll    down    when    she 

The   course   to   freedom's   regions   took. 

Say  not   the   puszta   is   not   fair, 

It   is,   but   like   a  modest   maid 
Prefers   to   hide   from   vulgar  stare 

Her   beauty   with   a   dense   veil's   aid. 
Of   course,    does   comrades,   friends   she   hail, 
She   promptly   casts   away   the    veil 

Spellbound  they  look  and  see  displayed 
A   beauty   from   some   fairy  tale- 

1    love   the   puszta!     Venturesome 

I  cross  it  oft  on  my  swift  steed. 
When   to   remotest   spots    I    come 

To  which  no  footprints  of  men   lead: 
Dismounting,   lie  down   in   the   grass. 
As   o'er   the   scene   my   view    1    pass, 

1   see  my  stork  in   near-by  rc-cd. 

Within  the  puszta's  very  heart 

The  stork  and    I    our  day  dreams  weaved 
The  pond's  depth  seemed  to  be  his  part, 

The  mirage   my  close   heed  received. 
And  thus  we  two,  the  stork  and  I 
The  best  years  of  my  youth  see  fly. 

He   was   my  friend;   I   felt   bereaved 
Did    I    not    find   him   always    nivjli- 


288 


ALEXAXRER  PETOFI 


E'en  now  I  love  that  bird,  to  me 
That  stork  appears  to  be  the  one 

Reality    we    do    not    see 

Unly  in  dreams  by  fancy  spun. 

And   eagerly,   year  after  year 

I   wait  that  he  again  appear, 

And    leaves    he    for   a    warmer    sun, 
I    bless  mv  friend  to  me  most  dear. 


ALEXANDER  PET6F1 


ALEXANDER  PET6FI 

From    a    Lecture,    delivered    before    the 

Petofi     Sick     and     Benevolent     Society 

of   New  York. 

"O  Charity!  thou  fairest  gift  of  heaven, 
thon  family  link  of  nations,  thou  work 
of  their  security,  thou  deliver  of  the 
of  their  security,  thou  deliverer  of  tin.' 
Thus  asked  that  immortal  Chieftain  of  *] 
Liberty,  Louis  Kossuth. 

That  realm  has  come.  It  surely  has  conic 
to  universal  recognition  among  the  Hungarians 
of  New  York.  Probably  no  nationality  which 
enriches  this  proud  Metropolis  has  so  many 
and  such  well  organized  and  so  well  conducted 
charitable  societies  as  have  the  Magyars,  and 
among  the  many,  the  Petofi  Society  occupies 
the  high,  the  proud  rank  of  being  one  of  the 
oldest,  one  of  the  richest,  one  of  the  most 
generous. 

All  its  vocation  is  love,  all  its  life  is  charily. 
The  religion  of  charity  has  its  apostolate,  and 
to  it  is  pledged  its  aid,  "it  hath  a  tear  for  pity, 
and  a  hand  open  as  day  for  melting  charity." 

The  Petofi  Society  celebrates  to-day  the 
twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  its  existence.  With 
pardonable  pride  it  points  to  its  work  of  the 


290  ALEXAKRER  PET6FI 

jjast,  and  enthusiastically  it  pledges  itself  to 
•continue  its  work  in  the  future.  Though  in  the 
first  instance  it  is  a  charity  society,  and  thougn 
.in  its  labor  of  love  it  knoweth  no  race,  no  creed, 
no  religion,  and  is  as  broad  and  as  wide  as  is 
-the  horizon  from  the  mountain  top,  still  it  is  also 
a  Magyar  patriotic  body  of  Magyar  patriotic 
men,  who  love  their  old  home  as  they  have  been 
taught  to  love  it  by  that  sublimely  great  song- 
ster whose  immortal  name  it  has  adopted,  who 
love  truth,  honor,  fraternity,  benevolence  and 
•  charity  as  they  have  been  inspired  to  love  it 
.by  Alexander  Petofi. 

freedom  and  love,  aims  so  incalculably  valu- 
able to  battle  for,  so  divinely  blissful  to  enjoy, 
so  high  and  heavenly  to  die  for  their  attain- 
ments, are  the  spring  wells  from  which  rise  the 
songs  of  the  world's  sublimest  songster — Alex- 
ander Petofi.  His  poetry  ' '  bears  us  on  spotless 
wings  far  above  the  sensuous  sphere  of  earth, 
and  like  the  repentant  tear  which  the  Peri 
conveyed  to  the  Angel,  removes  the  crystal  bar 
that  binds  the  gates  of  Paradise,  and  reveals 
the  golden  ladder  which  leads  from  earth  to 
heaven. ' ' 

This.golden-tongued  singer  of  songs,  whose 
melodies  are  translated  into  thirty-two  langu- 
ages, who'  lived  for  love  and  who  died  for  his 
country,  was  born  in  the  last  hour  of  the  last 
day  of  the  year  1822,  at' Little-Koros,  on  the 
Magyar  Lowland.  His  schooldays  are  his  pur- 
gatory. From  one  he  is  expelled;  from  another 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI  29  i 

he  runs  away.  Then  he  enlists  as  a  common 
soldier  in  an  Austrian  regiment,  then  again  he 
becomes  a  strolling  company's  ambitious  actor, 
to  find  that  he  is  a  miserable  failure . . .  How 
he  suffered  [-friendless,  penniless,  cold,  hungry. 
It  was  then  that  he  sang : 

For  sagest  reason  of  their  own 
The  gods  made  mortal  teeth  of  bone; 
Had  mine  been  made  of  steel,  they  must, 
For  want  of  use,  have  gone  to  rust. 

But  "truth  crushed  to  earth"  lives,  and  his 
genius  conquered.  At  the  end  of  1844  he  is 
at  Pest  and  the  associate  editor  of  a  literary 
journal  of  high  repute.  Here,  at  the  house  of 
the  editor-in-chief,  Vahot,  he  meets  Etelka, 
and  falls  in  love  with  her.  Before  he  ever 
plucked  up  courage  to  confess  to  her  his  de- 
votion, the  young  maiden  of  fifteen  summers 
is  carried  off  by  grim  death,  and  at  her  grave 
he  pours  out  in  passionate  accents  his  deep- 
rooted  holy  affection. 

A  whole  volume  of  the  most  delicious  poetry, 
surcharged  with  hallowed  pain,  he  published 
under  the  title,  "Cyprus  Lombok,"  and  de- 
dicated it  to  her  memory.  Had  he  never  written 
another  line,  his  fame  as  a  poet  of  the  highest 
order  would  have  been  firmly  established  with 
that  volume  alone. 

What  wonder  that  after  this  awful  blow 
struck  at  him  by  cruel  fate  he  grew  sick  of 
Pest  and  again  went  forth  to  ramble  through- 


292  ALEXANDER  PETO^I 

i 

out  the  land!  He  was  famous  already  how- 
ever, and  wherever  he  goes  he  finds  a  most 
hearty  welcome. 

Song  follows  song,  and  never  yet  has  a  poet 
"been  living  who  sang  such  inspiring  apotheosis 
to  love  and  wine,  surpassing  himself  only  when 
he  chants  a  national  anthem,  a  martial  song 
or  a  patriotic  hymn. 

Wine  and  love  are  the  elements  of  his  soul, 
but  he  is  always  pure,  always  noble. 

Delightful  night!  I  play  now  with  my  rose, 
Here  in  the  garden,  where  a  balmy  zephyr  blows. 
Quiet  is  all,  a  dog  barks  in  the  far; 

While  in  the  high 

Beautiful  sky 
Gleam   brightly,   moon   and   star. 

I  would  have  been  a  faithless  star,  for  I, 
God  knows,  would  not  remain  up  in  the  high. 
What  care  I  for  the  star-lit  heaven  above? 

Yes,  I  know 

Down   I'd   go 
Every   night   to   thee,  my   love. 

To  the  highest  pinnacle  of  mighty  passion 
rose  Petofi  in  the  love  songs  he  created  in  the 
year  1846,  when  he  had  the  good  fortune  to 
meet  Julia  Szendrey,  and  married  her.  Let 
me  give  here  but  one: 

A  rose  bush  on  the  hillside  grows, 
Come,  darling,  on  my  breast  repose. 
Thy  love   then  whisper  in  my   ear, 
Let  me  that  joyful  story  hear. 


ALEXANDER  PETuFf  _<o 

Within  the  Danube's  rushing  waves 
The   sun.  it  seems,  its   shadows  laves, 
And  o'er  them  sways  and  glows  in  glee, 
As  I  sway  thee  upon  my  knee. 

It   lias   been    said   of   me   that   1 
Am  atheist,  and  God  deny; 
Yet   even   now   I   pray  intent, 
To  read  thy  heart-beats  I  am  befit. 

In  his  and  the  other  poerns  born  of  his  love 
for  her,  the  flame  of  oriental  passion  is  found. 
Love  and  fatherland  are  the  fountain-heads 
of  all  happiness,  of  all  life.  •  His  love  songs 
are  full  of  boundless  passion  and  tender  emo- 
tion, but  always  pure  and  holy.  He  has  genuine 
gayety,  he  praises  the  good  suppers  of  good 
comrades,  where  wine  flows,  pleasantry 
abounds,  ideas  pour  forth,  poetry  sparkless  and 
causes  a  carnival  of  beautiful  figures  and  good- 
humored  people  to  move  about  in  the  human 
brain.  He  lives,  it  seems,  but  for  wine,  woman 
and  liberty,  yet  his  was  a  soul  captivated  by 
sublime  and  chaste  beauty,  and  he  impressed 
his  inward  nobleness  on  all  of  his  beauteous 
word  paintings  of  family  life,  landscapes, 
meditations.  His  sarcasm  is  bitter  and  cutting, 
at  men's  folies  and  vices  he  strikes  telling 
blows. 

Petofi  was  Hungary's  greatest  poet.  He  is 
one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  all  of  the  world. 
Every  smile,  every  tear  of  his  was  a  song,  and 
in  palaces  and  in  straw-thatched  huts,  in  con- 
cert halls  and  in  wayside  inns  are  sung  his 


294  ALEXANDER  PETOFI 

sublimely  beautiful  songs,  testifying  to  a  popu- 
larity no  other  poet  of  any  other  language  ever 
enjoyed;  a  popularity  as  enduring  as  are  the 
stars  on  high! 

Then  came  the  revolution.  What  a  grand 
historic  spectacle  we  behold!  A  nation  rises 
in  its  might  and  struggles  for  constitutional 
rights,  for  historical  existence,  arid  inspired  by 
the  sublime  battle  hymns  of  Petofi,  the  Ma- 
gyars are  victorious,  until  Austria  calls  the 
Czar,  who  treads  with  iron  heels  upon  Hunga- 
rian liberty  and  crushes  Magyar  life. 

Two  Hungarians  have  played  a  most  cons- 
picuous part  in  this  fight.  One  was  that  great- 
est of  all  the  great  exiled  Magyars,  whose  very 
language,  poured  into  men's  hearts,  was  a 
lambent  flame  to  animate  with  a  more  exalted 
and  a  diviner  life — Louis  Kossuth.  The  other 
was  our  own  Petofi. 

On  March  15,  18848,  he  published  his  famous 
"Talpra  Magyar,"  and  when  his  powerful 
battle  hymn  was  first  being  read  to  the  popu- 
lace of  Pest,  ten  thousand  hands  were  uplifted 
and  as  many  voices  echoed  the  oath: 

Xow,  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 
We  truly  swear, 

We  truly  swear,  the  tyrant's  yoke 
No  more  to  bear! 

He  joined  the  Honved's  and  is  in  many  a 
battle  as  an  aide-de-camp  of  General  Bemf  In 
the  winter  of  1848-49  he  came  home  to  Pest, 


ALEXANDER  PETOF1  2«)5 

and  is  blessed  by  pressing  his  new  born  babe 
to  his  heart.  But  of  short  duration  was  his 
visit. 

The  sun  had  hardly  dawned,  when  lo!  it  set; 

I  had  but  come,,  and  now  1  must  depart, 
Scarce  had  I  time  to  greet  and  kiss  thee,  dear, 

When  duty  calls  and  we  again  must  part. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife, 
Good-bye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  life. 

And  then  he  went  again  into  the  battlefield. 
With  sword  in  hand  he  fought  for  a  holy  cause, 
while  with  the  lyre  he  inspired  his  people  to 
hold  that  cause  sacred  and  dear  to  their  hearts. 
How  well  did  he  succeed!  Where  the  three 
hundred  Spartans  fell  is  well  known  to  history, 
yet  who  can  tell  us  how  ninny  Terraopyles 
Hungary  has? 

Petofi  died  as  he  hoped  nnd  prayed  to  <li<-. 
Listen  to  his  prayer: 

When  every  nation   wearing  chains 
Shall  rise  and  seek  the  battle  plain.-. 
With  flushing  face  shall  wave  in  fight 
Their    banners   blazoned    in    the    light; 

"I "or  Liberty!'" 

Their   cry    shall    be. 
Their  cry  from  east  to  west, 
Till    tyrants    be    depressed. 
There  shall  my  heart's  last   blond   flow  out 
And   I    my  latest   cry  shall   shout: 
May   it   be   drowned  in   clash   of  steel, 
In  trumpet's  and  in  cannon'-;  peal; 

And    n'er    my   corse 

Let  tread  the  horse. 

Which   gallops  home  from   victory's  gain. 
And  leaves  me  trodden  'mid  the  slain. 


296  ALEXANDER  PETO'-'I 

At  the  battle  of  Segesvar,  on  July  31,  1849, 
he  was  last  seen,  and  it  is  now  settled  beyond 
doubt  that  he  fell  there  and  was 'buried  in  the 
great  common  grave,  where,  after  the  battle, 
all  the  heroic  dead  found  their  eternal  rest. 

His  life  lasted  but  twenty-six  years ;  his 
songs  are  immortal.  Not  if  he  had  grown 
hoary  in  the  service  of  his  country,  could  he 
have  grown  greater  in  fame  or  stronger  in  the 
love  of  his  people. 

As  long  as  the  Magyar  will  love  .his  father- 
land, and  as  long  as  man  will  love  woman  and 
woman  will  love  man,  just  so  long  will  Petofi's 
memory  live,  and  so  long  will  his  memory  be 
kept  green  by  us  and  by  our  posterity.  He 
was  an  eternal  light  among  the  lights  of  heav- 
en, a  central  star  amidst  the  central  stars  in 
the  heaven  of  song. 


ALEXANDER  P^TOFI  297 


GLOSSARY. 

Alfold  —  Lowland.  The  mighty  stretch  of  fertile 
land  in  Hungary,  between  the  Danube  and  the 
Tisza,  extending  to  the  Slavonian  mountains. 

Delibab  —   Mirage, — Fata   Morgana. 

"Cserebogar,  sarga  cserebogar''  -  Mayfly,  yellow 
Mayfly,  the  opening  line  of  a  famous  Magyar 
folk  song. 

Arvaleanyhaj  —  Orphan  girl's  hair,  a  peculiar  grass 
of  the  Magyar  lowland,  resembling  the  aigret- 
tes in  modern  millinery,  couchgrass,  quitch- 
grass,  capillus  veneris. 

Eger.  —  A  city  in  the  comitatus — county —  of  Heves 
famous  for  its  wine. 

Puszta,  —  The  Magyar  prairy. 

"Szegenylegeny"  -f  "Poor  lad",  the  thief  of  the 
Magyar  lowland,  plying  his  vocation  in  the 
prairy  and  nearby  hamlets. 

Kis-Kunsag,  —  that  part  of  Hungary  where  the 
descendants  of  the  ancient  Kuns  reside,  on 
the  lower  Tisza's  shore. 

Kukoricza  Janos  —  John  Kukoricza.  In  the  Magyar 
language  the  given — Christian  name — is  put 
after  the  family  name.  Kukoricza — Corn. 
Janos — John. 

Etelka. — The  "ka"  is  a  suffix,  put  t<>  t!i;>  nani.'  and 
denotes  a  term  of  endearment — fe  diminutive. 
Etel — Ethel.  Etelka — dear  Ethel,  or  dear 
little  Ethel. 


INDEX. 

Page 

Preface :! 

The    Apostle    9 

Childe   John    : 7<> 

Simple    Steve    125 

( V]  iress   Leaves    149 — 174 

I  '11  tell  what  until  now  149 

What  would  I  not  have  done   150 

Where   art    151 

Ah!    How   sadly    152 

Close  that  coffin    152 

If  while  alive   153 

I   am   here    154 

Up  in  the  zenith 1 55 

I  '11  not  disturb  thy  peace   155 

For  two  long  days   156 

Why  dost  thou  look  into  my  room   157 

Why   mockest   nature    1  "^ 

Why  should  it  be  odd  ? 1 59 

Where   art   thou  f 159 

She,  the  darling  little  girl 160 

I  stood  beside  her  grave 161 

It  is  not  true 161 

Thou    wert HL' 

If  but  my  friends  would  not H>_ 

I   have   wandered  far  away !•>."> 

Come,    Spring,    come 1  ii4 

Time  heals  all  wounds 165 

A  tinge  of  blue 166 

Did   I    complain  ?    166 

How  sad  is  life  for  me 167 

When    sorely   suffering    168 

The  snow,  the   funeral   pall 169 

If  in  her  life  .  169 


Page 

Our   hoary   earth 170 

Within    this   room !^u 

My  mother,  my  mother 171 

The  clock  struck  twelve 1«* 

Do   I   in   vain 173 

Mysterious,    enchanting 173 

Discarded   flute    174 

SELECTED  'LYRICS. 

At   Home    • 1J7 

On  the  Danube   178 

A  funny  story • 178 

In   the   forest" 180 

What    use     180 

From  afar    181 

Longing   for    death 182 

Wolf   adventure 183 

I    184 

Living  death    185 

The   last   charity 185 

Into  the   kitchen   door  I   strolled 188 

Love  is,  love  is  a  dark  pit 189 

You  cannot  bid  the  flower 189 

At  the  cross  road 190 

My    little    flute 191 

T  'it  like  to  say 192 

At  the  funeral 192 

Mournful  is  the  day   193 

Voices  from  Eger    193 

The    moonrays    lave 195 

The  best  laid  plans 196 

Through    the    village 197 

My    gra ve     197 

On  an  ass  the  shepherd  rides : .  .  198 

The    Alfold    198 

The    evening 200 

Bright   star    201 

Happy  night    202 

How   vast   this  world 202 

Two   brothers    203 

Its   ruining    204 


Pago 

Drunk  for  the  Country 's  sake 205 

The  leaf  is  falling 205 

The   forest   home 206 

The  good  old  landlord 208 

The  Magyar  Noble 209 

Fair  maiden  of  a  village  fair ^ 210 

Bargain     212 

My    love 212 

Streamlet   and   stream    213 

My  •  fatherland     214 

Oh,  judge  me   not 215 

If   God    216 

I'd    be    a    tree 217 

The  ruins  of  the  inn ?18 

My    dreams 220 

Curse   and  blessing    222 

Sweet    joy    222 

The  Maniac   22:; 

I   do   not  weep 2 Jo 

What   is  the  end   of  man 22t5 

What  is  glory   .  . .  ." 227 

Majestic   night    - ~:7 

Are  they  lovers 227 

TJntability    

We  were  in  the  garden 228 

Poetic  fancy    't  was 229 

I  dream  of  gory  days 232 

Bright   blue   the  night 233 

One  thought  torments  me 234 

The    rosebush    shakes 235 

My   songs 236 

The  inprisoned  lion 2.'!7 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man 239 

Song  of  the  dogs  and  wolves 240 

I    a  in   a  Magyar 211 

A  holy   grave 243 

The    wind     2  H 

The    flowers    245 

K.'igged   heroes    247 

Tire     248 

My  Julia  is   mine 249 

Thou    art    mine 250 

How  beauteous  is  the  world .  .  252 


Page 

At  the  end  of  the  year 253 

At  the  hamlet 's  outskirt   255 

Twilight    , 256 

Aunt    Sarah     257 

II  oiiier    and    Ossian 258 

The  Moon  's  elegy 260 

A  rosebush  on  the  hillside  grows L'GL 

At  the  end  of  September 2(52 

Master    Pato 26:5 

On  a  rail  road 264 

My  wife  is  dead 26.1 

My   mother 's    hen 266 

National  song   .v 267 

My  wife  and  my  sword 269 

The   fallen    statue 270 

The  God  of  the  Magyars 272 

Farewell     27:5 

The  autumn  has  come 275 

Here   is    my   arrow 276 

Who  would  believe * 277 

War    song    278 

In  my  native  land 279 

The    dream    280 

I  parted  from  the  little  girl 281 

The   poet 's   monologue 281 

The    beggar 's    grave 28JJ 

The    stork    285 


Alexander  Petofi,  extract  from  a  lecture.  .  289 

Glossary     90^. 


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